


Laughed At By The Gods

by saizine



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Affection, Asexual Relationship (Asexual/Sexual), Asexuality, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:06:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 125,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1874199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saizine/pseuds/saizine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chandler’s not lying when he tells Miles he’s not gay. He’s just not entirely straight, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written between 17 February 2014 and 02 July 2014.
> 
> Possible spoilers: Set between series 3 and series 4. Assumes knowledge of events of the first three series. Makes some pre-canon references to canon characters introduced in series 4.
> 
> I cannot possibly extend enough thanks to **timethetalewastold** , who was not only an absolutely brilliant beta but a lovely person, an invaluable support and a patient sounding board for this project! I don't think I would have made it through with my nerves intact without you! :)

Chandler’s not lying when he tells Miles he’s not gay. He’s just not entirely straight, either.

In fact, he’s not entirely sure what he is at all.

The two glasses of single malt he’s had don’t help matters much. The lines are fuzzy enough without the extra confusion. But Chandler’s real problem is that he still thinks he’s thinking clearly, although some part of him knows that he’s not, and he’s actually considering answering properly this time. Or, at least, as properly as he can. Chandler’s not sure he’s got an answer for himself, let alone Miles. He’s had thirty odd years to think about it, to ponder, to _experiment_ (heaven forbid) and he’s still not sure. Maybe that’s enough of an answer. 

Maybe that’s enough scotch.

Miles shoots him a look over the top of his own glass. ‘So, are you?’

Chandler doesn’t know. Miles seems to think that if he keeps asking, keeps prodding in different places, he might get an answer. Chandler’s never known, that hasn’t changed, and neither has Miles’ propensity for asking him difficult questions at difficult times. At least he can be sure it’s late enough that no one’s going to barge in or interrupt if he’s going to be grasping around for the right words. It’s too late for Miles to still be there, really, and for a moment Chandler considers pointedly mentioning that Judy might be wondering what on earth he’s still doing at work. 

Miles’ unflinching expression cuts through the yellow glow cast by the light on the desk between them, and Chandler gives in.

He puts his glass down, the etched patterns shielded by the loose grip of his fingers. Chandler doesn’t like how the reflections are being thrown, the striations of light scattered across the desk. He rotates the tumbler where it sits, more nudges than touches, and stares at the thick layer of liquid he’s got left as he takes a breath and speaks.

‘It’s more complicated than that.’

The sergeant scoffs. ‘More complicated doesn’t mean unanswerable.’ He balances his own glass on the arm of the chair; the precarious position makes Chandler feel just a little bit dizzy. ‘You should know that more than anyone.’

Damn him. He’s right. They’re virtually specialists on the things that could be termed _more complicated_ , aren’t they? Not that they do much good with them. That thought alone draws Chandler back to the scotch, the burn in the back of his throat.

‘Oi, steady on,’ Miles says, although he sounds vaguely amused through the alarm. ‘No need to play catch up.’

‘I’m not.’

(He is. A little bit. It’s a bad idea but he is.)

Miles knows, too—he’s not an idiot—but he lets it go and fixes him with another stern look. ‘That’s not the answer I was after.’

‘I know.’ Chandler leaves off the slightly petulant addition of _that was the point_ that drifts through his head.

‘So?’

Words are difficult to choose, let alone string together, and Chandler opens and closes his mouth several times before he resigns himself to the inadequacy of the sentiment.

‘I’m…’ Chandler lifts his glass and gestures towards nothing in particular, looking for the right term. None really fit, so he sighs and sets the drink down with a dull clunk. ‘Not bothered.’

That’s as good an answer as he’s ever managed to come up with. It isn’t as though he’s repulsed, although perhaps he might be, a little bit, sometimes. Occasionally. He doesn’t really think about it that much, only when he has to. Maybe that’s more of an answer than anything.

Miles just looks at him, thinking; Chandler can’t bring himself to watch that, and in his redirection of his gaze he notices that something’s off kilter, out of order. He twists the glass back to where he’d placed it the first time, when he’d been careful, but it doesn’t help. The problem might be the light, the depth of the shadows or the way the drink throws amber where it should be white; he can’t tell exactly which, he never can, but it’s in there somewhere and all he has to do to find it is try everything. Chandler starts with his phone and he can’t decide whether or not to align it with the stapler or the case file they’d abandoned half an hour ago. Neither seems like a good choice. 

The sergeant takes a breath; he’s being careful with his tone, his words. ‘Not bothered, or…?’

The phone gets another nudge, but his sleeve catches a pen and Chandler bites back a curse. 

He says ‘Not interested,’ through gritted teeth instead, that somehow feeling easier now that it’s not at the forefront of his mind. 

‘At all?’

‘At all.’ 

Miles sits back in the chair, retrieving his glass with a thoughtful look. ‘Ah.’

If Chandler’s going to be honest, he’d expected a little bit more of a reaction from Miles. He’s the typical no-nonsense East Londoner, no time to spare for namby-pamby nonsense and all this faffing about with questions and platonic romance and shades of grey. Chandler wouldn’t have even thought he’d give the concept time of day, let alone sit there in front of him nodding in a sage manner that suggests he’s suspected this for a while.

Then again, he has been known to surprise them from time to time. 

The empty incident room offers no convenient interruption. The phone doesn’t ring. Chandler doesn’t have a well-timed epiphany as to where that lost file got to. He can’t even rely on Ed arriving with a bright, manic smile and an ancient book that smells of musk and mushrooms. All he’s got is Miles and he’s fixing him with that odd shrewd look he gets when he’s thinking and Chandler knows from experience that’s not always a good sign. 

Sometimes he doesn’t like where Miles’ thoughts take him. The man’s more perceptive than he looks.

But he should know that already, shouldn’t he?

‘Aren’t you supposed to be offering me some sort of unwarranted advice at this point in the conversation?’ Chandler asks, muttering more to his drink than anyone else as he raises the glass to his mouth again. It’s only a feeble shield but at least it is one. He suspects he might need it. 

‘Would you take it?’

Chandler just looks at him. It’s a rhetorical question, he knows, because he wouldn’t. That’s a proven fact.

Miles knows what he means and smirks, dropping back slightly in his seat. ‘I’m not going to lie, that explains a lot.’

Chandler feels his hackles rise but doesn’t do anything to stop it. ‘You don’t have to be interested in sex to be _normal_ , Miles—’

‘Hey,’ Miles interrupts, holding out a placating hand. ‘I never said you did.’ The palm morphs into a pointing finger. ‘And that’s not what I meant.’

He has to acquiesce; Chandler knows Miles is right, he knows that wasn’t what Miles meant. He’s filling in gaps that aren’t there, turning it into a pathology before anyone else can. He’s just played this sort of conversation over and over in his head so many times over the years—not always with Miles, not always with people who matter—that he’s preempting the follow-up interrogation. There has to be one.

‘What’s the word for it, then, eh?’

(There it is.) 

‘There’s got to be one, there’s one for everything these days.’

Chandler shrugs, noncommittal, and turns back to his drink.

He hasn’t—well, he’s had neither the time nor the inclination to ponder it much. He did a little more often when he was younger, when there were more questions to fend off and more people asking them. Chandler had fumbled through half-arsed answers then, only really half understanding them himself, but most either gave up with his woolly reasoning or took the hint. He’s had little reason to ponder that particular part of himself since. He may be a cerebral sort of man but even he’s got to prioritize.

‘Asexual?’

Chandler only suggests it because it’s the closest thing he knows, but even then he’s not entirely comfortable with it. But he’s never really been entirely comfortable with anything, has he, so perhaps that means it’s the right label. It still doesn’t feel right on his tongue, in his mouth. His mind’s always struggled to grasp the slippery concept and he can’t do it now, not with someone watching him try. Not when Mansell’s gone and left his desk lamp on again, a single eruption of cheap illumination in a swathe of blue blackness. Chandler will deal with it later, when Miles has gone; the methodical helps. If he’s lucky he’ll find another pile of unfinished reference forms, or a few paper planes he can grumble about and chuck in the bin and use as an excuse to trawl the rest of the room. The longer it takes, the better. He can’t go home and settle after this.

‘That’ll do, then.’ For an irregular moment, Miles sounds uncannily like Arthur Hoggett. ‘Anyway, you should have said.’ He picks up his drink and sits back, tipping the glass towards Chandler. ‘Could have saved me a lot of trouble.’

Chandler huffs out a laugh, although he isn’t especially amused. ‘I think you’ll find I never asked you to go to any trouble, nor did I encourage it.’ 

‘Didn’t put much effort into stopping me, though.’

‘I did try.’ He did, he really did. Chandler wills Miles to remember the time he’d tried to make him take back Lizzie Pepper’s number. He might still have the paper, somewhere, but he hasn’t looked at it for months. He doesn’t want to see it again; it wasn’t just the mess that had put him off. ‘It’s not that I didn’t appreciate it—’

Miles scoffs. ‘I can smell bullshit, you know.’ 

He has to smile at that, because usually Miles lets him do it, lets him deny what they both know to be the truth. Chandler can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a charade or a joke anymore, really, but there’s little difference.

He settles for saying, ‘You know what I mean.’

Miles nods, because he does.

They settle into what should have been a comfortable silence; it might still be, for Miles, but Chandler can’t relax. Not that he does often, not here, but there’s something about the way the sergeant’s alternating between studying the remainder of his drink and the way Chandler’s running a finger along the line of the file, trying to decide if it needs an adjustment or not, that says he isn’t finished yet. 

Chandler let him start it, after all. They’re this far in now, so he’s got to let him finish it.

‘Is it everything, then?’ There’s a pause, then Miles fills it with a needless qualification. ‘That you’re not bothered about?’

Miles isn’t especially good at being roundabout. Or, well, he is, but he’s a policeman and so is Chandler and they can spot each other’s methods a mile off. For some reason that makes him fight off an amused smile. 

‘Are you asking me if I want a relationship, Miles?’

‘If I’m likely to get an answer.’

It isn’t as if he hasn’t considered it. Miles knows he’s considered it; he told him, up on the roof. But consideration has always led to the same conclusion; he accepted the idea that he’s better off alone a long time ago. He’s difficult to begin with, isn’t he? And he only has to compound it with everything else. And it isn’t as if coppers have a very good track record for relationships, either. Apart from, perhaps, Miles, but as far as Chandler can tell he’s always been a lucky bastard.

The unfortunate thing is that Chandler knows he gets attached. He knows the difference between the familiar pleasure of spotting a good friend in a crowd and the lurching, fluttering that comes with something else. Not something more, because one’s not better than the other, not in his mind, but they aren’t interchangeable. And, occasionally, he _wants_. Not in the traditional sense, in the way that’s panted against skin in almost every film drama or spat across a table in an interview room, as if that excuses a loss of temper, a crime, a killing. 

But even the quiet version won’t work, will it? Not with him. Chandler’s terrified of disappointment, failure—not that someone else would disappoint him, or fail him. That’s unlikely to happen before he’d manage to do the same to someone else. You think he’d be used to that by now, after everything, but apparently not. Just the thought of it sends something heavy plummeting to the pit of his stomach, uncomfortable and vaguely sick-making. He’d go for another swallow of his drink, but Miles has stopped topping up his glass and it would be far too obvious if he did it himself.

‘I’m sure it’s possible for you, you know.’ Miles reaches out and gestures with the bottle; Chandler shakes his head, although he’s tempted. It’s a double bluff, he can tell. ‘You’re not as odd as you think you are.’

It’s not just him though, is it? Someone else has to put up with him. Not many people do. Not many people have. How many of them would look at him and think that he’d be a good partner? He can’t think of himself that way. Not really.

Chandler doesn’t know if it ever has.

Either way, he’s not about to start pondering it now, not even if that’s what Miles is angling to get him to do. He’s gone too far to turn back. One conversation can’t overturn years of experience.

‘I think I see enough of you as it is.’

Miles does bark out a laugh at that. ‘Judy wouldn’t be too pleased, either.’

‘Well, then,’ Chandler says, angling his glance towards the soft darkness that’s draped itself over the desks, the files, the forms. He wishes he could find the same silence. ‘We can’t have that, can we?’

The sly smirk doesn’t go, even as Miles polishes off what’s left of his drink. ‘I wouldn’t want to see the state of you after any bollocking of hers.’

Chandler doesn’t know why he laughs at that. It doesn’t make sense, it shouldn’t, but he does because Miles’ rusty laugh is familiar and not to be found in serious conversations of this sort. Its reappearance signals an ending, or so Chandler hopes. He needs to be on his own for a while. The smile dies away on his face, and it doesn’t linger in the same way the honest ones do.

Miles, on the other hand, keeps his. ‘Watch out, boss. If your face gets any longer you’ll overbalance.’

‘I’m sat down, Miles.’

‘Yeah, well, if you have any more of ‘em then you might be stuck sat there all night.’ Miles gestures with his empty glass before placing flat on the desk in front of him. ‘Speaking of which, I’m probably wanted. What time d’you make it?' 

‘Twenty to nine?’

Seventeen minutes to the hour, actually, but he’s trying to sound offhand. Miles can tell—of course he can—but even he can tell when they’ve hit a brick wall. Usually he can find a crack somewhere to worm in an idea or press until the cement crumbles out of place and he gets his answer but he’s already had one tonight, hasn’t he? 

Chandler’s not sure Miles would know what to do with two.

‘Right then,’ he says, handing the glass back to Chandler as he gets to his feet. ‘I’d best be off. Don’t sit there all night.’

‘I wasn’t planning on it.’

‘You don’t have to.’ Miles looks down at him with a knowing crook of the brow. ‘It generally just sort of happens on its own, doesn’t it?’ 

Chandler doesn’t reply, and that’s as much of an admittance as any. But he’s had enough of those for tonight and Miles sure as hell doesn’t particularly deserve to wheedle anything else out of him. He probably knows because he doesn’t push and doesn’t say anything when Chandler removes the lid from the bottle before him and pours himself another measure as Miles retrieves his coat from the back of his chair. He shrugs it on with an arched look as Chandler returns the bottle to its drawer, but he doesn’t say anything. 

In the silence, Chandler might just be able to hear the clicks of the second hand of his watch.

Miles slows to a stop just before the office door, one hand fishing around in an inside pocket. ‘Oh, and just one more thing—’

Chandler smiles, fond. ‘Pulling a Columbo isn’t going to work on me, Miles.’

The sergeant huffs out a laugh. ‘Would’ve thought he was a bit before your time.’

‘I’m not twelve.’

‘Could’ve fooled me.’

That’s more like it. They’ve reverted back. Now, at least, Chandler can enjoy his drink in peace.

(As peaceful as his mind gets, anyway.)

‘Anyway,’ Miles says, frowning at the floor, ‘what was I going to say?’

‘I think you’re pushing the impression to its limits now.’

‘Ah, yes, right, that was it,’ Miles continues, ignoring Chandler’s advice with a sly smile. ‘What I meant to say was that a lack of shagging doesn’t seem to have put Kent off yet, though.’

Chandler’s flabbergasted. There’s no other term for it. 

He hasn’t been this lost for words for years.

Miles, on the other hand, is abso-bloody-lutely thrilled. As usual.

‘Just something to think about,’ he says, chuckling on his way out.

* 

The next morning reminds Chandler that he’s not as young as he used to be. He hadn’t even been drunk, he’d maybe had half a measure too many, but the slamming of doors in the station’s doing his head in. It’s one of those headaches that’s strong but on the periphery, lingering behind his eyes and at the back of his skull. Is he reaching the age where hangovers start lasting for forty-eight hours before they ease off? Chandler sighs, rubbing the fingers of one hand across his brow, and considers resigning himself to the inevitability. Apparently he’s also getting to the age when he’s carrying blister packs of painkillers around in his jacket pocket; the only difference between him and a little old lady in a crochet cardigan is that he’s counting down the hours until he can wash down another pair of pills and peeling off the foil until each tear is neat and uniform.

Maybe he should swear off the scotch. Miles would be disappointed, if only because he’d have to find something else to get him for Christmas and birthdays. Plus, it’d been one less chance for him to give Chandler unsolicited advice. As far as Chandler’s concerned Miles has far too many of those as it is and he’s definitely not had a think about the last thing he’d suggested. He isn’t going to, either. Not if he can help it. The depressing thing is that even if he tells the truth (half-truth) and denies that he has, if Miles asks, he won’t be believed.

He’s not entirely sure he believes himself. After all, it’s his mind that’s always betrayed him.

He can’t always help it.

It’s not quite sufficiently distant to disregard yet; Chandler can’t wait until it is, because the more he tries not to think about it the more this headache throbs and the more he finds his mind wandering. It’s all Miles’ fault—that’s the line he’s going with, mainly because it’s true and he’d have been absolutely fine carrying on as usual if Miles had never mentioned it—and Chandler makes a mental note to buy some of that _blended shite_ he’s always complaining about for the next gift-giving occasion.

The worst part of it is that Miles knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t have to spend the time or the energy explaining it all to him, or pointing out each and every moment that supposedly brought him to this conclusion. Chandler will do all the work for him, and he knows it; he’s a policeman, a detective, and it’s his job to wonder. If he didn’t already have a predisposition for it, he’d never have made DI. On the other hand, perhaps if he was a little better at reigning it in, he’d have been a DCI by now.

For some reason, the thought’s uncomfortable. He hasn’t thought it recently, not as much as he used to, but it’s never done that before. It makes him feel vaguely sick—although, perhaps, that’s actually the fact he’s just taken painkillers on an empty stomach.

(That would make more sense, after all.)

There’s a light rap of knuckles on the open door. 

‘Morning, sir.’ 

Chandler tries not to wince but Kent notices.

‘Sorry, not you,’ Chandler says, prying his fingers away from the bridge of his nose. ‘Bit of a rough night.’

Amusement plays at the corner of Kent’s mouth as he gestures over his shoulder. ‘I think Mansell’s in the same boat.’

‘I highly doubt it.’ Chandler chances a laugh, and when it doesn’t send another twinge throbbing behind his eyes he looks up despite the harsh light bulbs. ‘I don’t think I’m quite that bad yet.’

Kent smiles, honest and only a little tentative. ‘Do you want something for it, sir?’

It’s a kind thought, but Chandler shakes his head (gingerly) and gestures with the blister pack.

‘Ah.’ Kent doesn’t need any further explanation; it’s not the first time this has happened in their office, after all. Even so, when Chandler looks back up he still looks a bit concerned. ‘Tea, though?’

There his stomach goes again, though this time it doesn’t feel quite as sick-making. It tastes vaguely like anticipation and he can’t fathom why. Perhaps he does actually need a cup of tea. Miles seems to subsist on them, after all.

He does his best not to stumble over his words. ‘If you don’t mind.’

‘Course not,’ Kent says, with an offhand wide smile, although he reigns it in with a solemn, ‘Sir.’

Chandler nods, and although he knows it’s not quite a dismissal Kent takes it as one. He does try not to study his back at he goes but even the bright white of the stock paper’s starting to make his eyes go funny and looking into the middle distance does actually seem to help.

‘Oh, I meant to say—’ Kent stops and turns back over his shoulder, one hand still curled around the doorframe. ‘We had a call from Helsinki early this morning. Something to do with a Järvinen case?’

‘Really?’

Chandler can’t help but sound intrigued. Kent’s mangling the name, though so had he when the file had first come through. That had been years ago, back when he’d only just been promoted to DI. Well before he’d stepped foot in Whitechapel. Something to do with money laundering and a predilection for stranglings, Chandler thinks—his memory’s not as good as it used to be, either, and that had been one of the straightforward ones. A large-scale London-based operation but fairly simple when it came down to the nitty-gritty. He’d been part of DCI Pearson’s team who’d cleared it up; probably the only time any of the papers had a good word to say about him. It’d been a pity what had happened to Pearson, after. No one expects a stroke at fifty, do they?

‘Yeah.’ Kent’s voice brings him back to the room. ‘They were asking after you, sir, but you weren’t in yet. I said you’d call them back.’

‘Right.’

‘I, um.’ Kent catches his words just before he catches himself fiddling with a loose thread on his cuff. ‘I emailed you the number and the investigating officer’s details, sir.’

Chandler suppresses a small noise of displeasure. He doesn’t really fancy grappling with a backlit screen that’s going to play havoc with his eyes—he’d tried to check his email when he’d first arrived but he’d just flinched and turned the brightness all the way down—but something about the gesture is touching. Chandler doesn’t know why, or how, because they all do it all the time. It’s the twenty-first century and the Met’s spent a lot of money on internal access systems, but there’s something in the way Kent stumbles over the information that suggests he might put more store by it than strictly necessary. 

Or maybe there isn’t, and that’s just what Miles said wheedling its way into his brain.

He nods, dismissing Kent with a quiet ‘Thanks,’ and for a moment it looks as if they might get stuck in an infinite loop of polite words. It wouldn’t be the first time, and even if it does happen it won’t be the last, but Chandler catches the infinitesimal nod and lets him go. He should speak to Ed anyway, shouldn’t he? Standing there exchanging pleasantries would cut into the allotted time for letting the archivist talk his way through his most recent research before he lets them get a word in edgewise.

Chandler considers the walk down to the basements; the dark down there would be a welcome relief from the lights in the incident room and their predilection for flickering and short-circuiting, but the main stairway at this time will be absolutely packed. He doesn’t even want to think about what shenanigans could be going on in reception. They’re just about due a shouty drunk.

It’s a cop out, he’s taking all the shortcuts he can, but he rarely does and on a quiet day like this he can’t even really blame himself. This is what he has a team for, isn’t it? That is what Miles is always getting on to him about, pushing through when he should use the resources he’s got at hand? He dials the extension for Ed’s basement and holds the phone to his ear, rubbing circles into the opposite temple as the ringing makes him wrinkle his nose.

‘Ed,’ he says as soon as he hears the answering click. ‘I don’t know if it’s within your remit, but you wouldn’t happen to have the Järvinen case files, would you? It’s relatively recent, but…’

Chandler trails off; there’s already a rustling on the other end that sounds awfully like Ed trying to move quickly around perilously piled boxes. He braces himself for a crash but none comes. Instead there’s the telltale sound of (heavy-handed) typing.

‘I don’t think I do,’ Ed says, after a disappointing electronic beep, ‘but I could hunt them down for you.’

Chandler thinks back to the bare light bulbs in the reference rooms and blinks hard, trying to chase away the pressure. ‘If you would.’

‘Won’t be a minute.' 

Ed sounds almost painfully chipper, though perhaps that’s just the mood Chandler’s in, and he’s disappeared off the line almost as quickly as you can say catalogue search. Chandler sets down the receiver much more gently than he really needs to and pinches the bridge of his nose. That’s when he notices that his desk isn’t strictly in order—and he can tell, he can _always_ tell, even through the splay of his fingers as they blur in front of his eyes. He can’t say exactly what it is that’s bothering him about it, though. It’s just something. Though it’s always just something, isn’t it?

He still hasn’t isolated it when Ed twists his way through the maze of desks and chairs, a manila file clasped to his chest. He doesn’t bother knocking, since the door’s been left open, but he manages to announce himself anyway by the way of another typically terse greeting from Miles’ direction. Even if the threat of an argument, however good-natured, makes him consider assigning them all to desk work, he’s grateful for the chance to peel his fingers away from the line of his phone, the length of wire he can’t get to lie straight and he knows he can’t get straight but he’s trying to anyway.

‘Here we are!’ Ed announces as he comes to a stop between the chairs. ‘Wasn’t too hard to find. I don’t know why that PC was having such trouble with it.’

Chandler takes the file from Ed’s outstretched hand, careful to catch the cuttings that are spilling out of the edges. He must be turning into Ed, because the first thing he thinks is that it’s no wonder that whoever’s running the system down there can’t find their way around, if this is the amount of care they’re taking with it. As far as he can remember they hadn’t left the file in such a state, but in those days he wasn’t responsible for them.

Sometimes that feels like a completely different century.

Ed gestures with the folded pair of glasses in his hand. ‘Is it for anything in particular?’

‘Kent’s had an officer from Helsinki on the phone.’

‘Ah. Good luck.’

Ed’s just as perceptive as Miles when it comes to reading Chandler’s tone, although he’s more subtle about it.

‘I wouldn’t mind a look when you’ve finished with it. If you don’t mind.’ He pauses and gets a slightly glazed expression that suggests he’s already made it back to his desk. ‘I’m working on updating my selection of Scandinavian crime.’

For a brief moment, Chandler has a mad and reckless urge to laugh. He must really be getting ancient if his name’s starting to turn up in a historical crime archive. But who is he to fight the march of time? He’s well aware of the fact that he’s not in control. He spends his life controlling what he can. 

‘Certainly, Ed,’ he says, opening the file flat in front of him and side-eying the way someone’s left it all out of order. ‘If you want any clarification, you could always interview me.’

Ed’s eyes light up. ‘Now, there’s an idea—’

Chandler should remind him that he’s still a civilian, that he can’t just start calling up witnesses and officers involved with the few cases he handles that aren’t already centuries old, that if he’s thinking of booking an interview room it won’t work, but he hasn’t really got a chance. Ed’s already turned on his heel, there’s someone else approaching and he’s not about to summon the pounding back to his head by calling out. He’ll tell him when he returns the file. Whenever that turns out to be.

Kent passes Ed in the doorway, sidestepping him so that he doesn’t spill the drink in his hand, but they pause and exchange a few words anyway. Chandler lets them do it, he doesn’t interrupt, but for some reason he’s hyperaware. The feeling creeps across his shoulders, lingers uncomfortably along the back of his neck; it’s like a shadow in the corner of his eye, or a sound only half-heard. It shouldn’t be there, because it’s only bloody Kent, but Miles’ prompting floods through his brain for a moment it’s as if he’s underwater, as if he can’t think of anything except the possibility that it’s all true. 

It breaks—snaps, actually—when he’s scanning the first page of the file and a mug appears at his elbow. He glances up, words still crowding at the front of his mind, to find Kent stood at his shoulder.

‘That should do the trick, sir.’

Chandler smiles then, because Kent keeps his voice low and steady and it’s a welcome change from Mansell’s occasional exclamations and Miles’ barking warnings, the shrill ringing of the phone and the way everyone seems to have suddenly developed a habit for letting heavy doors slam. Though if he smiles for a moment longer than strictly necessary then that’s his business and he’ll deny it any under questioning. Which, judging from Miles’ ill-concealed smirk, is an inevitability.

‘Thank you, Kent,’ he says, equal parts grateful and quiet.

He’s trying not to give Miles the satisfaction, but a part of him knows that there’ll be a shadow of disappointment on Kent’s face as he turns back to the file. He doesn’t really need to read it that closely—he’s got one of those brains, he just needs a reminder and it all comes back, as if it was yesterday—but he always places professionalism first, doesn’t he? If Helsinki’s calling then it’s probably important, and he should know what he’s talking about. It doesn’t matter if he notices Kent’s fingers fidgeting as he walks out and back to his desk; it doesn’t matter if he feels a little guilty about it.

He isn’t going to do anything about it, anyway. 

Is he? 

*

As it turns out, the man from Helsinki only wants to discuss certain finer details of the investigation in order to help determine whether a suspect they’re investigating is a true copycat or just someone using the same manual. Chandler reckons it’s the same manual but a different edition, though he’d be lucky if the metaphor crossed the language barrier, and after the usual curt and cordial goodbyes it’s the only interesting thing that happens all day.

And the day after. And the day after that.

The day after _that_ appears to be the breaking point.

Chandler’s perfectly capable of keeping himself busy. There are a thousand files that need reviewing, a stack of paperwork that either needs to be sent off or rewritten, some interdepartmental memorandums that they’ve all been ignoring. There’s plenty to do. So why Mansell decides that it’s the perfect time to have a game of trying to throw rubbish in the bin from halfway across the room escapes him. Chandler doesn’t do anything about it, because it’s certainly not the worst thing Mansell’s decided to bring into the incident room, but every now and them a crumpled bit of paper soars through his peripheral vision. His grip on his pen tightens each time and only relaxes when there’s a surprised cheer and they go in search of more disposable paraphernalia. 

Kent manages to look stern for about half an hour, but even he gives in eventually. Chandler can only just stand it since he’s actually taking the initiative to pick up all the throws they miss. Riley’s crushing them all, and as far as Chandler can tell she’s not even trying, but when Miles joins in as point-keeper and bookie he gets a distinct feeling that it’s all just gone too far.

He marches through into the incident room and, narrowly avoiding getting a balled-up leaflet in the forehead, makes for the walls of files. There’s got to be something in there, after all, and it’s better than sitting there, twiddling their thumbs until someone deigns to commit a crime. 

Riley smothers back a laugh. ‘Oops, sorry, sir.’

‘While I quite agree with your sentiments about needless paper advertisement, I think it’s time we do something productive.’ 

‘What, don’t you want to try your hand, boss?’ 

He mutters a ‘certainly not,’ as he stoops to read the second shelf down.

There’s a creak of a chair, as if someone who’s been slouching has suddenly sat up straight, then Mansell’s voice breaks the expectant silence. ‘Wait, was that a joke?’

Chandler ignores him and directs his question over the opposite shoulder. ‘What did we clear up last?’

‘Carter, sir.’ 

Kent answers on his way back to his seat, having just dropped the last of the papers in the wire bin they’d maneuvered into the middle of the room.

‘So the next one down the line would be…’ Chandler trails off, pushing each file out of place for a moment so he can read their labels. ‘Cartwright.’

‘Did anyone else just hear the boss try to make a joke?’ 

There’s a distinctly papery sounding smack and when Chandler turns around it’s quite obvious that Riley’s just leant backward to whack Mansell around the head with a worse-for-wear copy of the Evening Standard. A couple of half-torn pages drift to the floor, dislodged by the impact; evidently they’d been trying to make that particular supply last. Either way Chandler takes what’s left of it out of Riley’s offering hand as he passes and drops it in the bin. 

‘Bit close to cheating, that, isn’t it?’ Mansell asks with a quirked grin as he slides his chair back to the right side of his desk. ‘Should be at least ten foot away.’

‘I’ll give him a point for completion’s sake.’

‘ _Miles_.’ 

‘What?’ The sergeant’s grinning. ‘It makes the odds easier to work out.’

‘Work, please,’ Chandler says, almost a warning, before he turns to the only other one of them who seems to share his opinion. ‘Kent?’

‘Is it the Benjamin Cartwright file, sir, or—?’

‘Alexandra.’ 

‘Right,’ Kent says, half under his breath, and there’s a double click that cuts through Riley and Mansell’s giggling as he opens the electronic version.

‘Is this how we’re picking them now, then?’ Miles asks, slightly sardonic. ‘Alphabetically?’

Chandler sighs. ‘Not officially.' 

Miles quirks a brow and drops back into his seat with an air that says he’s dubious about the entire thing.

‘We aren’t reopening the case. Just… seeing if there’s anything that’s been missed. Speaking of which,’ Chandler says, switching his attention back to Kent. The constable’s quick to rearrange his expression but Chandler can still tell he’s missed what it had been originally and has only found the conclusion. For a brief moment he’s equally intrigued and disappointed but he shakes that off in favour of his original question. ‘Are they related?’ 

‘Not as far as I can tell, sir.’ He peers at a file, then says, ‘No, I don’t think so. The other’s on loan from Manchester. A DS Morrison requested it eighteen months ago. The notes say something about a cross-referencing project?’

Miles tuts. ‘A prominent incompetent. Out of a job, now.’

Riley rolls her chair back to her own desk. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t ask.’

‘Nah, common knowledge. Shagged a suspect.’

There’s a collective wince.

Chandler presses on regardless; they need not linger. ‘Any movement?’

Kent shakes his head; the gesture’s incrementally slow at first, but the more he reads the more confident he is in the answer. ‘Not especially. The family inquired about possibly reopening the case in 2006 but nothing came of it. The Chief Super wasn’t keen.’

Miles makes a contemptuous sound. ‘His lot always balk when there’s something to be done about PR.’

‘Careful, Skip,’ Riley warns with a smile, reaching for her tea, ‘you never know who’s listening.’

‘I’ve got ten years on the lot of them.’ 

Maybe it’s a misplaced sense of justice and responsibility; maybe it’s a juvenile throwback to the fact that, once, Chandler would have expected to have that title by now. Either way the comment just makes him more interested. Maybe if he can fix other officers’ mistakes he might stop making his own. 

‘Sir?’ Kent asks, leaning back in his chair to seek out Chandler’s gaze. ‘What d’you reckon?’

‘It’s worth a second look,’ he says, and when Miles grunts in automatic disobedience he adds, ‘We’ll see where it takes us.’

‘Come on then,’ the sergeant says as he sidles up to Kent’s shoulder, sending both Chandler and the scruffy-looking file in his hands a significant look. ‘What’ve we got?’

Kent clears his throat and begins reading the case details. Chandler almost doesn’t hear at first because he can’t tell what that glance was supposed to be about and he’s suddenly gone hot under the collar.

‘Alexandra Cartwright, twenty-seven, found dead in her flat on the ninth of March, 2002. She’d been—'

For a moment, Kent stumbles. They all watch him lick his lips, as if trying to chase a taste out of his mouth, and swallow with an apprehension not entirely suited to a police officer.

‘She’d been laid out on the kitchen table. Major incision made to the abdominal cavity, organs disturbed but not removed. Same to the chest; ribcage exposed. Cause of death was listed as strangulation despite a lack of obvious blunt force injuries to the tissues of the neck.’

Miles grunts, drawing attention away from the way Kent’s voice is starting to hesitate. ‘Not unusual.’

‘No, I suppose not, but…’ Riley trails off as she leans over Kent’s shoulder a second time and gestures at the monitor. ‘Does that say uniform were called out in the middle of the day?’

‘We don’t all keep reasonable hours.’ 

Kent says it as if he knows, as if he’s been woken before dawn or kept from sleep a hundred times by someone who should know better. For a startling moment Chandler wants to know who, and why, and when—as if he doesn’t already have enough questions—and he shakes the feeling off almost as soon as it arrives, though it’s not without a certain residue.

‘Most of us have to,’ Miles adds, meeting Riley’s eye in the space atop Kent’s head. ‘But it would explain why no one noticed her body. You can’t see something through the kitchen window if the blinds are still drawn.’

‘She was working on a research dissertation—humanities,’ Kent says by way of explanation. ‘Not that many contact hours; it says here that her supervisor mentioned that whether or not she came in regularly depended on whether or not she was writing or doing research at the time.’ There are a couple more clicks, then Kent continues. ‘Her housemate was a medic, working placement shifts at St Barts. Overnight ones, on that particular week.’

‘What was her subject? Anything sensitive?’

‘History of the body.’

‘Very scientific?’

Kent shakes his head. ‘More along the lines of touch and propriety. Social more than scientific, I think.’

‘She and him made the perfect pair, then.’ Miles glances around the room at his audience. ‘The sociologist and the clinician.’

‘If you’re thinking the flatmate was involved—‘ Kent says, articulating Chandler’s thoughts as they arrive. ‘Then you’d be wrong. He rang it in.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time a murderer reported his own crime.’ 

‘This Max Neilsen is on the hospital’s CCTV until the end of his shirt, and the original team managed to spot him on the Tube cameras at several separate points. He was nowhere near the flat from just before eleven until twenty to twelve the next day.’ 

Miles scowls. ‘Were they involved?’

‘He said no. All of her friends said no. All of his friends said no.’ Kent looks as if he might shrug, but instead there’s a sudden stillness about his fingers. ‘They still ran him pretty hard. Look at how many times he was interviewed.’

Riley leans over from where she’s stood, arms still crossed, and follows the line of his finger as he points out the entry. ‘Christ.’

‘Yeah.’

Chandler doesn’t want to know. Or, he does, but he’ll be leafing through the file in front of him to find out the exact figure. He’s certainly not reacting to Miles’ challenge of a look. He’s too old for dares.

Instead, he asks, ‘How far did they get?’

‘Not very,’ Kent says with a little sigh. There are a few more clicks as Chandler leafs through a few more pages. ‘It doesn’t look as if there was very much to go on.’

‘I suppose that’s why they went after Neilsen.’

‘Seems like it. There was DNA at the scene that didn’t belong to any of the occupants, but there was no match on our databases.’

Chandler seizes the main investigative report from where it had been tucked at the very back of the case file, behind the interview transcripts. ‘See if you can get it run through again.’

(It’s a long shot, but in Chandler’s experience, it’s always worth a try.)

Mansell jumps to his feet, saying ‘I’ll go,’ with a wink. Judging from his enthusiasm for a task that’s likely to be fruitless, given how unlikely it is for them to have kept anything on file (at least on site) for a decade, there’s another reason he wants to be hurrying down to the labs. Chandler watches Kent and Riley exchange knowing exasperated looks and suppresses one of his own; he can’t see them all getting to the end of the week without another round of bets. Miles will be the ringleader, no doubt. He always is.

Chandler clears his throat and continues, trying to distract himself. ‘And see where Neilson is now. We won’t call anyone in for interviews yet, but it might prove illuminating.’

Kent nods, not quite looking up at him. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Riley.’

‘Yes, boss?’

‘Have a look into why the family was interested in having the case reexamined, beyond the obvious.’ It sounds callous, but they have to think it. Have to say it. ‘They may have found something worth knowing, something that the original team didn’t. And something may have been done off the books. Feel free to speak to any officers involved, but not the family. All right?’

’Right. We’re not to bother the family. Got it.’

Chandler lets her turn away from him without any further instruction and note down the case number from the program on Kent’s computer.

The odds and scores still take up much of the whiteboard closest to Chandler’s shoulder; when he turns and catches sight of the numbers, the tallies and what he’s pretty sure is a very small, very obscene doodle, he lets out a long-suffering sigh. Alexandra Cartwright’s smiling face glances up at them all from where her picture sits flat on the table. She will watch them all, keep a vigil for them as they work their own sort of vigil for her, when they pin the photograph to the boards, an avatar for facts.

But Chandler will not let her take second place to a game devised by idle minds, and he reaches for something—anything—to wipe the surface clean.

‘Right, then,’ Miles says with a grim smile. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to see a historian about a disemboweling.’

* 

Setting up the whiteboards takes Chandler most of the afternoon, and by the time he stands back to look at the entire spread the rest of them have made arrangements for drinks down the road. Kent keeps glancing up at him from where he sits; Chandler consciously doesn’t lean against the side of his desk but the gap between it and Mansell’s is the best vantage point. Either way, he doesn’t say anything, Kent doesn’t say anything, Miles is apparently responsible for this week’s round and Chandler spends the late evening double-checking that they hadn’t missed anything.

The original investigating officer had been exceedingly fond of working through his thoughts on whatever paper he could get his hands on, apparently; there’s even details about an interview written on a coffee-shop napkin, and it takes Chandler five minutes to figure out how best to attach it to the boards. It stays put for a couple of hours, but when it floats to the floor and he’s still stood in the incident room making his way through a cup of tea, Chandler gives in. He retrieves it, folds it along the lines already imprinted, tucks it in the folder in the centre of his desk, and goes home.

The napkin’s back on the board the next morning, exactly where Chandler had put it before it fell, and he doesn’t have the heart to ask why or how. Miles looks far too pleased with himself for it to be safe. 

*

The basements have never been Chandler’s favourite part of the station—not enough windows, too much dust—but there comes a point when even he has enough of staring at a file. Ed’s probably got something for them by now; he’s had the night to think about it and he’s probably spent it in the archive. Chandler hadn’t checked to see if he was still there on his way out, after all, and that’s when he usually has to tell him to go home. It wouldn't be the first time Ed’s put in more hours than the rest of them.

The place is a warren above ground and the subterranean levels aren’t much better. Chandler weaves his way through the hallways until he recognises the spill of light at the furthest end, the discarded trolleys that seem to have made their permanent home outside Ed’s door. 

They’re lucky it’s not sensitive police files lining out there, really. Either way, Chandler’s given up on doing anything about it and he does his best to ignore the creaking ceiling as he approaches.

‘Ah, Kent! Have you got a minute?’

Chandler comes to a halt as soon as Ed’s exclamation reaches him; he doesn’t quite know why he’s trying to be quiet, but he is. It’s just one in a line of odd things he’s found himself doing without thinking—but he’s trying not to dwell on that at the moment. In fact, he’s trying quite hard not to conclude that it’s all something Miles put into his head.

There’s a shuffle, as if someone’s moving a large stack of papers, then Kent’s voice carries around the corner. ‘I suppose so.’ 

He slows his purposeful stride to something a little more gentle, meandering. (Maybe he is curious.)

‘Now,’ Ed continues, ‘what do you reckon that cause of death means?’

There’s a pause, and then: ‘All it says is _teeth_.’ 

Chandler can picture Kent’s face, the slight frown. He almost wishes he couldn’t, but they’ve worked together for years at a job which requires them to be frowning most of the time. It’d probably be more of a problem if he _couldn’t_ picture it. Then his mind would really be going. 

Ed half-laughs. ‘I wouldn’t be asking you if it was clear, would I?’

‘Why are you looking at…’ Another ruffle of papers. ‘Medieval coroner’s reports, anyway?’

‘I’m considering another book. Crime in plague London.’

Kent muffles a laugh just as Chandler gives a heavy sigh. This is Ed’s third new idea in as many weeks; Chandler can’t see how he’s going to make it through a manuscript. Then again, he does already have one book to his name. Or used to, at least.

‘Well, _murdered at Stepney_ seems quite straightforward,’ Kent says, his voice a little too accommodating to be entirely polite. ‘As does _killed by a fall down stairs at St Thomas Apostle_. On the other hand, _rupture_ and _suddenly_ are a bit vague.’

‘I just can’t get past _teeth_.’

‘You and me both, Ed.’ There’s a sound like dropping paper, then the scrape of a chair. ‘Why are you asking me, anyway?’

‘You’ve seen more death than me.’

‘Not by teeth, I haven’t!’ Kent says, with a laugh, although the way it dies away a little too quickly is painfully familiar to Chandler. ‘And I wouldn’t be so sure, Ed. I’m not the one who put together a crime archive.’

Ed huffs, although it’s unclear whether it’s out of annoyance or from the trouble of lifting another box. ‘What were you after, then?’

‘You know how the boss has us looking up virtually the entire history of disembowling?’

There’s an assenting hum; Chandler assumes that’s Ed, just from the rhythm of the conversation, but the thought reminds him that he’s quite purposely eavesdropping now and should probably be putting a stop to it. He takes a few steps closer, fully intending to appear at the doorway with a professional knock of knuckles, but Kent’s voice continues with a slight tinge of apprehension and Chandler slows to a stop again.

‘There was a thing on the telly the other night—’ 

Ed tuts and manages to sound uncannily like Miles. ‘Not generally a promising start for any developing line of inquiry.’

Kent speaks over him, getting louder. ‘—and I got thinking that perhaps we should look at dissections, too?’

‘Actually, that’s not bad.’

One of them huffs out a laugh; Chandler would bet money that it was Kent.

‘No need to sound so surprised.’

‘Were you thinking in any more particular terms?’

‘Um, not really. I mean, could there be something in how… I don’t know, autopsies and dissections were illegal? Done in secret? Graverobbing? Galen?’

‘Galen only did apes.’

‘Oh.’

Kent sounds disappointed and for some reason Chandler feels the same way; he’s only been aware of the idea for about two minutes and already started putting store by it. They need something to go on, after all. Otherwise Miles is going to have something to say about it.

‘I’ve got a box on the Burke and Hare murders.’ 

‘That’ll work to begin with.’

There’s a brightness to Kent’s tone that betrays an almost foolish amount of hope. For some reason it makes Chandler feel slightly guilty, a little melancholic, until Ed cuts in with words full to the brim with academic preponderance.

‘Oh, it’s more than to be beginning with. There’s quite a lot of context to wade through.’

‘I’ve got all day, Ed.’

Something drips near Chandler’s shoulder; he turns and glances at the ceiling and the floor, pulling a face although he can’t see what, if anything, fell from the pipes. There’s a creak overhead and that’s the last straw; Chandler can’t stand there any longer, even if Kent seems to think they’ve got all the time in the world, because really there are things that need doing. If only he could convince the rest of them that he isn’t making it up. 

Ed’s shuffling something around—or Kent, it could be Kent, but Chandler hopes that he’s got more sense than to muck about in that overwhelming mess—and papers and boxes scrape across the still-unfinished floors. Chandler braces himself and heads for the door, ducking his head as he goes. 

Kent turns towards the noise of his approach. ‘Oh, hello.’

Chandler nods. It’s the most professional thing he can think to do, because it might just be him but there was a moment there when Kent looked as if he’d still have been smiling if he hadn’t caught himself just in time. 

Ed’s head pops up through a gap in the shelving, and he catches Chandler’s eye before reaching for an ancient-looking book. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’ 

‘I work here,’ Chandler says, frowning.

‘Yes, quite.’

Ed’s reply is distracted, distant; he’s starting leafing through the pages as he walks especially carefully down the aisle to rows of storage boxes. Chandler watches the direction of his footsteps with a mixture of amusement and confusion, and when he turns back to Kent he finds a similar look there. He can’t help the small sliver of a smile that comes out with the surprise, though thankfully there’s a distant crash and Kent looks away before either of them can think too much of it.

‘You all right, Ed?’ he calls, a slight hesitance to his voice, then mutters, ‘If herring-related crime’s collapsed again—’

Chandler actually _chuckles_ , for God’s sake. He shouldn’t, because there’s another ominous creak from another corner of the room, but Kent’s smiling and Ed’s reappearing from the end of an aisle and he’s got things to do. 

‘Young Kent’s actually had a rather good idea.’ 

‘I agree,’ Chandler says, before really thinking. The shot of retrospective embarrassment probably shows, because Kent’s looking at him in a peculiar way, and he searches for something to say that might be suited as an explanation. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t help overhearing. The corridors echo.’ 

He needn’t have worried about it being a very tenuous excuse, because Ed pulls a face that says he knows very well what Chandler’s talking about. ‘I’d shut the door if it wasn’t for the damp.’

Kent gives the wall nearest his shoulder a skeptical look and shifts a little further away, a little closer to Chandler—and although he appreciates the sentiment, he can’t help but reflexively clear his throat.

‘It all just seemed very…’ Kent trails off with his explanation, until he settles on the right term. ‘Neat, sir.’

It’s not the right word. Nothing about that file is neat, absolutely nothing. But Chandler understands what Kent means; there’s a certain precision about it. A certain intent—something deliberate. He hadn’t been able to articulate it before, although he’d certainly felt it, and to have someone else mention it independently brings a degree of sanity back. Chandler had thought he’d been slipping, seeing things that weren’t there, but apparently not.

He nods his agreement. ‘I know what you mean. It’s not but it is.’

‘Yeah.’ Kent smiles, tentative but true. ‘Good way to put it, sir.’

‘Right, then,’ Ed says as he reappears, lugging along a corrugated box that looks as if the base is about to give out. ‘Burke and Hare.’

Kent barely has a chance to reach for the offering before Ed’s dumped it onto his outstretched arms. He bites back a curse under the sudden surprise, although another struggles out when it becomes obvious he was utterly unprepared for this. Chandler leans across and catches a side just as it looks as if Kent’s about to lose his grip. It’s a fidgety moment, and they can’t seem to meet each other’s eye, but Chandler keeps his splayed hand on the base of the box until Kent’s secured it enough to render him unnecessary. Even then he retreats incrementally, just in case, trying not to notice how many times Kent’s eyes flit to his hand, his fingers. 

Ed returns with another handful of files and slaps them on top of the box Kent’s still struggling to balance. ‘Might want to have a look at these as well. London Burkers, bodysnatchers. Supposed imitators of all the Burke and Hare business, attempting to meet the demand for human cadavers. They centred around Bethnal Green, but I believe there was a case of a woman killed in Whitechapel.’

Kent and Chandler exchange a significant look. Ed doesn’t seem to notice.

‘I’m afraid I’m not entirely definite on the details off-hand, but I think I made a mark in the file,’ Ed continues, and whether he’s ignoring them intentionally or just like he normally does suddenly seems like an insurmountable question. Chandler tries to disregard it and only quite manages when Ed succeeds in commanding his complete attention. ‘If you’re interested, Joe, then there might be a couple of other files that could be of help. Following on from the slight deviation of focus.’

Chandler shrugs. ‘Ed, we’ll take anything at the moment.’

‘Well, there’s a few files on anatomization as punishment, ordered following execution of certain criminals? There are several court proceedings on those, though I think they’re based in the Americas.’ Ed gestures as he speaks, almost as if he’s tracing the spines of books. ‘And, if I can find them, I’m sure I’ve got some things somewhere on the Royal Colleges of Physicians and Surgeons. They were the only ones technically allowed to perform dissections, initially. They didn’t get through many, mind you, but it might be worth having a look at just to see the difference between what was standard and what was deviant practice?’

Kent pipes up from behind the box he’s maneuvered into leaning on the back of the closest chair. ‘Shouldn’t we have a look at a few modern procedures, then? The case only went back in the file a decade ago. I doubt what was standard three hundred years ago looks anything like what’s standard now.’

‘Dr Llewellyn’s already been up,’ Chandler says with a slight sigh. Nothing can ever be simple. ‘She talked Miles through it. She agrees with the original pathologist: it wasn’t a professional job.’

‘But if they were trying to imitate something from the eighteenth-century,’ Ed begins, pausing in what Chandler had long ago realised is his trademark manner. ‘It may _appear_ botched to us.’

The box wins, slipping a little too far to the left, but Kent just about manages to catch it and carry it off with a shrug. ‘Decent way to cover your tracks.’

‘You think it could be a double bluff?’ Chandler asks, half horrified and half intrigued. 

‘It could be a triple bluff.’ 

‘Let’s not escalate this unless we have to,’ Chandler says, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. ‘But I agree. It’s an interesting line of thought. We’re relying on whoever did it as being some sort of amateur historian—’

Ed cuts in from where he’s crouched behind an impossibly high stack of books. ‘Possibly not amateur, even.’

‘I wouldn’t rule it out, though. It’s the sort of popular history and popular science that people go for, isn’t it?’ Kent says, avoiding Ed’s gaze. Chandler understands his avoidance; they’d all thought the same about him, on the first case. ‘I mean, go into any bookshop. Look at the tables of two for one copies they’ve got out next to the history books: it’s all Jack the Ripper this, serial killers that. Historical crime rivals true crime now. It sells. BBC Four’s terrible for it, when it feels like it.’

Chandler wouldn’t know; he’s got a decent television, he let whoever it was in the shop talk him into it years ago, but he rarely has the thing on. He doesn’t really know why he pays the license fee. He can just about bear rolling news, when they’re not on it.

‘What I mean is it’s gruesome enough—or could be made to sound gruesome enough—to make publishers or producers think that it’s the sort of thing that’ll get readers, or viewers, whatever it is we’re talking about. That was the same ten years ago. Even if you only had a casual interest, I don’t think it’d be that difficult to come across the information.’

Kent doesn’t need to elaborate to know that Chandler’s understood his point. All someone needs is the information, the basics. Then… well, then they’ve got everything at their fingertips, nothing’s a secret anymore. Not with the internet, not for anyone who’s invested enough. And killers do tend to be invested.

Chandler sighs, then says, ‘I’d like to take a look at those files, Ed.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: 07 July 2014.


	2. Chapter 2

‘Oi! Where’ve you been?’

Chandler looks up from witness statement he’s spent five minutes trying to decipher to find Miles rounding on an exasperated-looking and, admittedly very late, Kent. He had been wondering where he was, to be honest, but he’d been trying not to dwell on it. Every time the thought pops into his head so does Miles, complete with a significant look and knowing smirk, and he can’t tell whether or not he’s annoyed that Miles had said anything at all or if he’s scared he was right.

Either way, that isn’t the problem at hand, is it?

‘Sorry, sorry—’ Kent says, a bit breathless, and he winces as the door crashes shut behind him. ‘I’ve had a bit of a morning.’

‘So have we, kid, but that’s because we’re running a ship with a short-staffed crew!’

Mansell groans from where he’s sat staring at his computer screen, propping up his chin with a hand. ‘Not the naval analogies again.'

‘I’ll use whatever bloody analogies I want!’

‘Some variation wouldn’t go amiss.’

Miles looks as if he’s only just about holding himself back from cuffing Mansell around the ear. God knows why, since all they’ve been doing is following up on a couple of muggings called in over the past few days. They haven’t even needed to clear half of the whiteboards; the only thing left is to wait for forensics and that report’s always notoriously slow, even with Dr Llywelyn vouching for them. Even Chandler wouldn’t have complained about a bit of banter. Still, it’s the fact that Kent’s not joining in, not adding an off-hand comment in a pause, that draws Chandler’s attention to him.

The first thing he thinks is that Kent looks harassed enough and he wishes Miles would give him a chance to catch his breath before trying to jump down his throat. The second thing he wonders is where on earth the first thought had come from and how is he supposed to act as their DI if he’s going as soft as that?

Riley chimes in from where she’s sat, tea in hand. ‘Have you been watching The Hunt for the Red October again, skip?’ 

‘That was submarines.’

‘Potato, potahto.’

If there was ever evidence that they don’t have enough to do, that’s probably it. Chandler pushes himself to his feet and makes his way into the incident room proper, smoothing his jacket as he goes.

‘What’s going on here?’

‘Sorry, tube strikes,’ Kent says as he slings a battered Oyster card onto the pile of papers on the end of his desk and tries to shrug out of his coat as fast as humanly possible. ‘Apparently Transport for London and I have differing opinions on what constitutes “minimal disruption,” sir.’

Mansell chuckles, glancing at them over his monitor. ‘Why’d you even bother?’

‘God knows, I could have walked and made better time.’

Some part of Chandler reminds him that he should probably be saying something along the lines of _You’ve had a week’s advance notice for this_ or _Next time, take that into account and leave home earlier_ but none of the words will come out of his mouth. It’s true, they’ve all known about the strikes for ages: Kent had frowned at his phone when the first announcement email came through and it’s all the news has been going on about for days. Chandler’s quite glad about that, actually, even if it is tedious, since it takes the spotlight off them for a while.

Anyway, they’ve never been that sort of team.

‘Understandable, in the circumstances,’ he says instead. ‘Though I’m sure you can make up the missed time this evening.’

He’s joking, of course he is, and Kent can tell; that’s why he grins like that, just for a split second, before Mansell cuffs him around the shoulder with an overdone _Oooh, detention_ that even a schoolboy would cringe at. Chandler doesn’t have a chance to tell Mansell off for it since Riley’s already prepared, smacking him around the back of the head with yesterday’s rolled up newspaper.

‘Right, back to work, the lot of you,’ Miles barks, staring round at all of them as the chuckling dies down. He doesn’t exclude Chandler. ‘You, too.’

Chandler obeys. He shouldn’t, he’s in charge, but somehow the roles tend to blur when it comes to them. It doesn’t help that he is aware of Miles keeping an eye on him—not that he usually isn’t, because he usually is, but there’s a new distinction to it now. Less outright concern, more curiosity veering on nosiness. It’s why he keeps his gaze down as he returns to his desk, why he lets them get on with their jeering and tries to make it seem as if he’s not listening.

(They all know he is. It’s his job to, after all.)

Kent’s voice carries. ‘What’ve I missed, then?’

‘Not much,’ Riley says with a sigh. ‘You didn’t happen to see a forensics report with our names on it on your way in, did you?’

‘No, but they aren’t about to start leaving them in pigeonholes, are they?’

‘I think we’ve been pushed to the back of the queue anyway. Mansell tried to sweet talk some information out of one of the techs.’

Kent laughs, and so does Riley when Mansell makes an annoyed noise from where he’s buried himself in printouts. They ignore his overdone sense of persecution, and Kent throws a ‘You twat, Mansell,’ over his shoulder.

(Chandler can’t help but agree.)

‘Well,’ Miles adds, sloping back through the room with one hand in his pocket and the other clasping the spine of of the the myriad of books Ed’s sent up, ‘until those come through, we’re back on Cartwright.’

He drops the hardback on Kent’s desk with a thud. ‘So snap to it.’

It’s his bulldog routine; he doesn’t really mean it, and everyone knows, so that’s why even as Miles makes his way back to his desk Kent grins and reaches for a pen and paper.

‘Last time I checked, you weren’t that keen on this investigation, skip.’

‘It’s not an investigation,’ Miles grumbles, ‘It’s a case study.’

In a way, Chandler can sympathise with Miles’ disparaging tone. Any copper would be a little miffed that they’re going so softly-softly as they are. They haven’t had a chance to try and get the investigation reopened officially, but even that would require some reasoning. Some backing, some new revelation. The Chief Super’s gone even more reticent since the latest cuts—if they want a decent shot at this, they need to have half the investigating done beforehand. But they can’t approach the family, the witnesses, the friends; not yet, anyway. Not unless one of them’s willing to take the blame for a PR disaster. And as much as Miles would protest being called a people person, that’s his speciality. Chandler knows stats, sees similarities in the literature, the research, the typeface. Miles runs on faces, voices, personability… and this case offers him none of that.

Chandler knows the sergeant’s more interested than he’s letting on. He’d even found a book among the mess on Miles’ desk on one of his late nights, when he’d been tidying up, and yes, he knows how Miles feels about books. He’s certain that the second in a multi-volume series about the circumstances of seventeenth-century crime is not within his usual remit.

Miles pulls out his chair with a scrape. ‘It’s right up Buchan’s street.’

Riley gets up from her chair with a laugh: ‘Ah, so that’s why you’ve been crotchety.’

‘We pander to him enough already.’

‘He’s as much a member of this team as anyone else,’ Chandler cuts in from where he’s stood at one of his filing cabinets.

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Miles says, dismissive. ‘I’ve never seen his bloody warrant card.’

There’s a ripple of laughter, then the sound dies away to the familiar buzz of flicking pages and the occasional burst of typing. Even in the quiet, when he should be glad he can actually feel as if his team’s being productive, Chandler can’t quite say the same for himself. Despite the fact that he keeps reading the _s_ -characters in the file Ed’s prepared for the case as _f_ -characters, his mind keeps wandering. And each time his eyes give in and follow his line of thought, he keeps imagining he can feel Miles looking at him, waiting to prove a point.

So he keeps his eyes on his own work, with brief moments allocated to realigning the lines of his desk, momentary agitations that take up more time than he’d like to admit. 

'Why were you on the Tube, anyway?'

Mansell’s voice carries over the slight murmur of work. Chandler reckons it’s as good a reason as any to look up.

Kent shudders, as if the thought’s bad enough, then says, ‘Bike's gone again.'

'Again?' For once, Mansell’s incredulity is warranted. 'It's a bit shit, isn't it?'

'Lay off it!'

'All right, all right.' Mansell holds up both hands but lets them fall back to his keyboard before Kent’s finished glowering at him. 'Don't go all sentimental on me.'

Riley reappears with a full mug of tea; Chandler’s glad that one of them’s taking pity on Kent, at the very least.

‘Didn’t you have a normal bike once?’ she asks as Kent takes the ceramic from her and cradles it between his palms.

‘Yeah. One of my flatmates adopted it.’ He blows on the scalding surface and scowls. ‘And when I say adopted, I mean abducted.’

‘Have you tried training them?’ Riley offers Kent a packet of biscuits produced from one of her desk drawers. ‘I’ve heard spray bottles work well as a deterrent.’

‘It’s too far gone.’

There must be an overdone expression that accompanies Kent’s resigned tone because Riley grins, biting her bottom lip to keep back a laugh when Miles turns in their direction. Chandler shifts his gaze back to his own work as well but he can’t help but feel as if he’s missed out on something important. Or something significant. It’s an entirely irrational, of course, but it’s there. Just the allure of the hidden, he supposes, because he usually knows—

Or, well, he doesn’t. He doesn’t, not really. He’s isn’t privy to all of their conversations, it just feels as if he’s usually part of Kent’s good-tempered resignation. If only because he’s the only one who will include him. It was like that, once, when Kent had still looked more comfortable in a jumper and jeans than a suit.

He’s certainly taken to the suit now. Slimmer cut, slimmer tie. Trim. Why’s he noticing this now? He’s always known, he’s just never noticed. Not like this. 

Chandler’s got to have a word with Miles about putting ideas into his head. Or not doing it again, as the case may be. The things are bloody insidious, but shouldn’t he already know that?

Riley clucks her tongue, the sound indicating half-serious aggravation. Chandler follows the sound and finds Kent gesturing across the table, reaching blindly for the packet just out of reach as he flicks through the index pages, looking for whatever it is Miles hopes he might find.

‘Tell you what,’ she says, surrendering another biscuit. ‘I’ll give you a lift back tonight. Save you the trouble. You’re up my end, aren’t you?’

In a moment of madness, Chandler wishes he has a similar convenient excuse.

(He’s got no idea why.) 

* 

He knows he can’t hide from the truth in the bathroom, but he can bloody well try.

He’s already made a bit of a habit out of it, anyway, and it’s been a long week. It’s been a rather _empty_ week but sometimes that makes it worse. Right about now Chandler would gladly hand in his badge for a properly decent case, as counterproductive as that might be, but it would be better than sitting about waiting for forms to come back. There’s only so many incident reports they can fill in for two violent muggings they’ve been called to attend and only so many of them to take turns pestering Llewellyn’s team. Not that Chandler endorses that sort of juvenile practice.

(Only when they’re getting desperate.)

There’s always the Cartwright case, but they aren’t specialists in unsolved open cases and they’re getting about as far as the original investigation did. They’ve fallen back on double checking the details already available to them until they can get the go ahead to speak to the family, and no one wants to log overtime going through twelve or thirteen hours worth of CCTV. Not even Chandler. Not really, anyway. He wants to want to, but—as evidenced by the fact he’s found himself retreating to the quieter, cleaner womens’ toilets on the second floor—he’s not feeling his best at the moment.

In fact, he’s feeling rather bloody ropey, and there’s nothing he can do about it except wait. Working usually passes the time when he gets like this, but… he runs a hand over his face for what he hopes is a final time and peers at himself in the thankfully pristine mirrors, tugging at the edges of his waistcoat and jacket until he’s happy that the seams align properly.

'Sir?’ The sound’s tentative but distinctive. ‘Sir?’

‘Here, Kent.’

Chandler doesn’t know why he’s saying it, because he’d come in here to escape everything in the incident room and that happens to includes his colleagues, but the tone of Kent’s voice betrays an anxiety that Chandler can’t leave unsoothed.

The constable appears from around a tiled wall, searching out Chandler’s gaze with a frown. ‘Why are you in the ladies?'

'Why are you coming to fetch me?'

'I was the only one willing to risk a sexual harassment suit for you, sir.'

Kent says it without missing a beat, and with half a forward smile on his face. It’s when Chandler looks at him out of the corner of his eye that the confidence seems to falter.  The smile crawls away from his mouth and, for a moment, Chandler’s sure Kent’s going to try and apologise—for what Chandler’s not sure, but they both do it enough, don’t they?

Instead, Kent attempts a recovery. He must be taking a leaf out of Mansell’s book… which, if Chandler thinks about it for too long, is a slightly worrying thought. 

'Not from you, obviously,’ he says, shrugging a quick heft of shoulders as he rests his hands in his pockets and begins to study the hand dryer on his right.

Chandler nods, attempts a little smile. It doesn’t really work—it hasn’t for about a week.

‘Where’s Riley?’ he asks, checking his cuffs and wondering if there’s a way to stop his thoughts running away with him.

Sending her would make most sense, after all.

Kent frowns. ‘Her youngest came down with something at school, sir. You okayed her clocking off for the afternoon.’

‘Did I?’ 

His voice sounds vaguely disembodied, like it’s his but he’s not the one saying it. Kent nods and looks uncomfortable, raising a hand to his mouth as if he’s about to bite his nails before thinking better of it. He places his hands in his pockets instead, leaning one shoulder against the wall. Chandler swallows, holds himself back; after all, there’s probably not as much to worry about on the walls in here. The gents, on the other hand…

‘May I ask again, sir?’

‘What?’

Chandler cringes; he hates to have to ask but he’s honestly lost track of this conversation. If they’ve even been having one. It isn’t exactly clear.

‘Why are we in the ladies’ toilets?’

It’s a perfectly reasonable question. Chandler wishes he has a perfectly reasonable to answer to match.

‘The, um… the taps don’t drip.’

It’s one of those things that Chandler knows Kent knows. He doesn’t have to elaborate, the admission’s enough. It would be for any of them, but Kent doesn’t even do that face that the rest of them do. He doesn’t plaster concern over his features, making Chandler feel even worse about this than he already does. He just nods, as if it’s all normal, as if he’s never heard anything more rational in his life.

His smile might be a little softer than usual, but in the end he just shrugs the shoulder that’s not propping him up against the tiled wall and says, ‘I’ll get someone in to have a look at it, sir.’

An urge to say, ‘Thanks,’ wells up in Chandler’s chest but he battles it down. He means it, though. He should thank him, one day. Perhaps he will. But for now a silent nod will have to do, even as his fingers twist the tap in front of him. The metal doesn’t budge but something about it makes him feel slightly better. Slightly more controlled. Which is ironic, because it’s the fact he can’t control himself that means he does it at all, but he’s always been a muddle of meanings and that, _that_ , is why he doesn’t inflict himself on anybody else.

No matter what Miles might think.

‘Come on,’ Kent says, still genial, as he pushes away from the wall. ‘The skipper’s about to flip his lid.’

Chandler looks up, sharp and almost dreading. ‘What’s the matter now?’

‘Do you want the transcript or just a paraphrase?’

‘Whichever’s shorter.’

The way Kent’s smiling as he turns towards the door suggests he shouldn’t be too worried about the answer; if Kent’s pleased then either something’s turned up in one of their cases or Miles has done something that might have actually resulted in him getting what he deserves. Both of which Chandler is very much in favour of, so he follows Kent’s lead.

‘You know that kid you had your eye on for last week’s burglaries?’ Kent asks, sidestepping in the corridor so he can direct his words over his shoulder.

‘Which ones?’

They fall into step, side-by-side, and Chandler tries not to notice.

‘Thursday’s.’

That had been a one-bed flat above a jewelers on Mile End Road. It had just looked like a couple of broken windows and a ransacked front room at first, then whoever had called it in found the occupant stabbed. He’s in hospital now, or he might have been discharged, Chandler would have to check, but they hadn’t got very far with it. None of them could think why they’d gone for the flat—with one, perhaps two at a stretch, thousand pounds of valuables—when there was an almost literal gold mine at street level. They’d put out an appeal, but looking for someone donning a balaclava and a black turtleneck is about as useful as looking for a bloody leprechaun.

‘Right, go on.’

‘Skip said he’d been in and out of here for years for every type of petty crime, but nothing violent?’ 

‘Where are we going with this?’

‘Fingerprints, sir. The report came in about twenty minutes ago; he’s all over the scene. Skip’s ready to throttle him.’

As he says it they come to the doors of the incident room. For some reason they both slow to a stop, face to face, and from where he stands Chandler can see what Kent’s talking about. Even through the mottled glass he can see Miles is positively fuming, shrugging on his coat with an inherent violence that even Chandler finds a little threatening. There’s a reason they say Miles has a tendency to grab on to suspects like a bulldog, but it’s even worse if he’s vouched for them. He’s not Cazenove—none of them are—but Miles is old school. He’s got a rapport with the small-timers. It’s useful, most of the time. But when have they ever been able to rely on regularity?

The doors do their best to contain Miles’ vehemence but snippets like _I’ll wring the bugger’s neck_ and _Bloody cheek of it_ suggest that a moderating influence is probably necessary. Which Chandler supposes is probably his job, with Mansell smothering an amused grin and, undoubtably, stoking the fire with even more creative suggestions. Chandler chances a glance at Kent, still stood at his elbow, and although he finds nothing there that would suggest he’s descended to the same depths of hilarity that Mansell’s lowered himself to there’s something about the set of his mouth.

_Something_.

God, he’s got to stop looking.

Mansell spots them and shoots them a comically overwrought look through the glass. Chandler tries to look sympathetic but he’s got a gut feeling that it might just be coming across as pained.

‘Well,’ Chandler says, with a resigned sigh. ‘I’d best step in then.’

Kent stands aside but holds the door open for him with a grin. ‘Good luck, sir.’

Chandler doesn’t really want to think about how those words actually give him heart, but he’s going to anyway. 

After they’ve dealt with this. 

*

‘Kent, with me.’

He’s been saying that a lot lately, and if Miles keeps shooting him significant looks then he’s just been returning them with stares of slightly higher wattage. It’s a wonder no one’s noticed, really. But it doesn’t matter what Miles thinks because he’s definitely not trying to _do_ anything. Perhaps—at a stretch—he’s trying to see if he can notice something, catch a glimpse of whatever it is Miles has seen, but even admitting that to himself is a slippery slope and he’s not going to go there.

Either way he holds the door open with a splayed hand as Kent does an odd-half jog to catch up, slipping on his coat as he goes. 

‘What exactly is it that we’re doing, sir?’ Kent asks as they walk, Chandler a little ahead.

‘Having a word with Mrs Howard.’

‘The neighbour?’

Chandler hums as they make their way through the lobby and towards the station doors. ‘Left-hand side.’ 

He only has to hear Kent’s hushed _oh_ from behind him to conjure up the face that would go with it, but he ignores it and opens the door with a little more force than usual. Kent’s right to recognise the significance, anyway. The Howards and the Aldams share a wall that forensics had spent most of the night labeling as evidence.

‘D’you really think she’s involved, sir?’ Kent asks, turning his collar up against the wind. It must be a reflex that comes with the Vespa because they’re only going to Chandler’s car, which is all of ten steps away from the front door, but it brings something strangely warm bounding to the space beneath Chandler’s ribs. 

‘I don’t know,’ Chandler says, because it’s the truth. They’re only at the very beginning of this case, and he can afford to be wrong, but Kent’s looking at him with an expectant expression as they cross the tarmac as if he expects him to have the right answer tucked away somewhere in his brain. ‘But something’s off about her statement. She was in the flat next door. Why didn’t she hear anything?’

Kent smiles as he reaches for the car door. ‘Because she wasn’t listening?’

‘Even I can hear the people next door to me walking around, Kent. The walls in these places aren’t soundproofed.’

‘I don’t know, sir.’ Kent raises his voice to be heard from the opposite side of the car, and waits until they’ve both climbed in before continuing. ‘I’d wager the walls in my building are much worse than yours, and I couldn’t say I’ve heard much movement. Granted, I’m usually trying to deafen myself. Or one of my flatmates is making a din all on their own. It’s the one thing they don’t need pestering to do.’

‘Precisely. You aren’t paying attention.’ Kent looks at him from where he’s settled in the passenger seat, mock affronted, and Chandler allows himself a sliver of a smile. ‘Mrs Howard would be paying attention. She’s got an newborn to look after; she’s not just going to be ignoring odd sounds. And she told us herself she’d been up and down all night.’ 

Kent fishes a folded up paper from his jacket pocket and reads out, ‘Feedings at quarter to two, four, and half past six.’

Chandler nods, twisting the key in the ignition. ‘And if Dr Llewellyn’s right about time of death…’

‘She’s likely to have been awake.’

‘My point exactly.’ 

Kent nods, borrowing his sage look from Miles, but shrugs once they’re halfway through the car park. ‘Still doesn’t mean she’s hiding the fact she heard something. She might have got the times mixed up, or perhaps she really didn’t hear anything.’

Chandler shoots him a look before he turns on to the main road.

‘What I mean is, it’s a long shot, but we should look at this both ways, sir. Not everyone’s malicious. Quite a lot of people are just clumsy. Absent-minded.’

‘It’s a bit of a push, though, isn’t it? You’d have to be trying not to hear a din like that when it’s only a few layers of brick away.’

There were scratch marks on the plaster, after all. Dents. Those don’t happen by accident. No one just happens to put their fist through a panel of drywall.

‘No, I agree with you, sir,’ Kent says, tucking the pen he’d dislodged back into his jacket pocket. ‘What I said—it’d be a stretch to make it feasible in court, but you could definitely make a case for it, sir.’

‘Did you turn into a solicitor when I wasn’t looking?’

Kent shrugs, and if he smiles for very long Chandler must just miss the best of it. ‘Someone’s got to be devil’s advocate, sir.’

‘Go on, then.’

For a moment the only sound in the car is the slight rev of the engine. Chandler takes the next chance he gets to slide a quick glance to his left and finds that Kent’s looking at him with a bewildered frown. He doesn’t quite look like he knows he’s doing it, either, but then he blinks and turns back to facing the road through the windscreen.

‘I remember once,’ he begins, clearing his throat, ‘on one of the early callouts—you know, the Spencer case, I think it was, so a few months ago now—apparently one of my neighbours’ cats leapt out of a first floor window with a terrible screech. Tess swears I was awake when it happened, says she could smell the coffee I was making. I have no memory of the sound, though I do remember the coffee.’ Kent winces as they go around a corner, wrinkling his nose at the memory. ‘It was terrible, I was in no state to be operating machinery.’ 

‘Was the cat all right?’

(It’s an entirely irrelevant question, but by the time Chandler realises that it is, he’s already asked it.)

‘As far as I know.’ Kent does that half-smile of his. ‘It’s always been a bit of an odd creature, though. Always mewling outside our front door, though I think that’s because Tess has started giving it sardines. She feels sorry for it; I think it’s mental.’

Chandler feels a similar smile appear on his face, if only for the most fleeting of moments. ‘So you’re a dog person, then?’

‘Not necessarily.’ The smile widens for a second as Kent messes the front of his hair with bent fingers. ‘I just don’t think I’ve forgiven it for the state it made of my ankle when I first moved in. I’m pretty sure I’ve still got the scars.’ 

Kent chuckles, almost as if the entire situation’s funny. It very well may be but something—some part of it all—doesn’t feel as if it’s falling into place. Chandler had asked, had prompted, but he doesn’t know what to do with the information.

‘Anyway, my point was that sometimes, you just don’t hear. For whatever reason.’

It’s almost as if Kent had just walked up and handed him the cat in question. He’d have no idea where to put that, either.

‘Sir?’

‘Oh, right. Yes.’

‘I think I’ve made my point.’

*

‘Might not want to ring the bell, sir.’

Chandler looks up from where he’d been peering at the car’s fuel level. ‘Why?’

Kent lets his hand fall away from where he’d rested it on the door handle when Chandler had parked under a spattering of trees.

‘One: because the kid might be asleep, and she won’t be in the best mood to speak to us if you serve as an unwelcome alarm clock,’ he says, cocking his head to one side. ‘And two: because if you knock and she hears, then she’s got better hearing than she’s letting on.’

It’s the sort of thing Chandler should have thought of, it he was thinking straight. The fact that the words came out of Kent’s mouth stills Chandler’s hand around the key still in the ignition. Another smile ambushes him.

‘Good point.’

Kent somehow manages to grin without showing his teeth and nods in a way that’s supposed to mean thank you. It’s a familiar look, one that Chandler learnt to recognise a long time ago, but paired with Miles’ revelation Chandler can’t help but feel his smile fall slightly, droop at the edges. He can’t stand that for very long either, because no thought seems to really fit, and they get out of the car without another word.

The buildings look different in the daylight. They always do. Anyone who thinks their brick and their fences and their peeling painted doors are more sinister at night hasn’t done this job long enough. Or they’ve done it for too long. A crime scene in the day knows what’s been done there, what’s been done to it. Knows that something’s out of place. Every one of them knows why the place feels wrong. At least in the dark there’s some vestige of comfort, some thin veil of being able to keep things hidden until you’re ready to see them. The sun, however weak, is always cruel.

Kent looks as if he feels the same ominous ache in his bones, judging from the way he squints into the wind as the air buffets his curls. The set of his mouth’s changed. His jaw is tighter. Chandler wonders when he’d first been able to tell, and can’t remember. 

So he clears his throat and says, ‘Number forty-six,’ instead, walking towards the line of brass-numbered doors. Chandler doesn’t say anything when he sees Kent yank the last remnant of the ragged cordon from the fenceposts and tuck it into his coat pocket. He can sympathise with the impulse, after all, and Head Desk would be glad to know that they’re trying not to leave their mess all over east London.

Kent catches up just as Chandler raises a hand to knock on the door. The both fidget as there’s a shuffling from the other side, movement; Kent’s better at adopting a sudden straight face at the snick of the latch. 

‘Good morning,’ Chandler stars as a woman comes into view, dressed in jeans, a jumper that’s plainly too big for her and slippers. ‘Mrs Howard?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m DI Chandler, and this is my colleague DC Kent.’ Kent nods and offers a small reassuring smile that Chandler knows better than to try and emulate. ‘I believe you spoke to another of my officers the morning before last?’

‘I must’ve.’ She looks at them both with hawkish features, a sharpness not softened by motherhood, and tucks a chunk of blonde hair behind her ear. ‘This about next door?’

Chandler nods once. ‘I’m afraid so.

‘I can’t say I’m surprised.’ Her mouth quirks into an odd sort of smile. ‘You’d best come in, then,’

Mrs Howard steps aside, holding the door open with her hand. They step inside, towards the narrow hallway, and Chandler can’t help but feel frustrated at how much he notices how closely Kent hovers at his back, at his shoulder. He shouldn’t be this easy to distract.

‘Sorry about the mess,’ she says, brushing past them both as they wait for further invitation. She waves them through to what must be the sitting room. ‘Can’t really help it at the moment, you understand.’

Kent catches his ankle on the wheel of a pram, bites back something unprofessional. Chandler’s rather oddly pleased that he can tell what Kent would have chosen to hiss if he had the chance; it plays on the set of his mouth, the way he digs his teeth into his bottom lip. He doesn’t stop himself from turning and fixing the thing with a stern look, though, and Chandler doesn’t tell him off for it.

‘I understand you have a new baby, Mrs Howard,’ he says instead.

Her face brightens. ‘Yes, that’s—’

She’s interrupted by the cry familiar to almost everyone who’s been alive long enough. Kent flinches in that unimpressed, repressed way common to those who spend enough time on public transport. Chandler just attempts a smile in the face of the clutter.

‘You’ll have to excuse me for a moment. I’m wanted, I’m afraid,’ Mrs Howard says with a vague gestures over one shoulder. ‘Do make yourself at home.

She goes through to another adjacent room, ducking through an open doorway, and leaves them on their own. Chandler feels as awkward and he usually does; situations like these always highlight the fact he barely knows how to make himself feel at home in his own flat.

‘What do you think, then, sir?’ Kent murmurs, nodding towards the only other doorway.

Chandler takes the hint, glancing back over his shoulder at where Mrs Howard had disappeared as he moves. ‘Not much, at the moment.’ 

‘At least there’s definitely a baby.’ Both of them huff a quiet chuckle at that. ‘We can confirm that much, at least.’

Mrs Howard must have the same uncanny ability for impeccable timing as Miles because it’s at that moment she reappears, cradling her baby to her chest. Kent shoots Chandler another look and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards.

‘Sorry, you don’t mind, do you?’ she asks as she lowers herself into the closest armchair, careful not to jostle the infant. ‘She’s a bit fussy at the moment.’

Chandler shakes his head; if she doesn’t mind, he doesn’t, and it’s not as if the child will remember them having a conversation about a murder when he’s older. Or, he might. Chandler knows he knows nothing about children. He’s not even that sure that he was one for very long.

‘Oh, God, sorry—I haven’t even offered you a cup of tea—’

Kent unfolds his arms and pipes up with a kindly expression that makes Chandler wonder if he’s had a lifetime of catering to the demands of small children. ‘I could do it, if you don’t mind.’ 

‘Would you?’ For the first time in their visit, she seems tired, relieved. ‘Oh, that’d be lovely, thanks. One sugar in mine.’

The constable nods and follows Mrs Howard’s directions to the kitchen. Chandler arranges himself on the sofa opposite, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees to avoid leaning on the shirts draped across the back of the furniture, obviously waiting to be ironed. He doesn’t know why the fact she assumes Kent knows how he takes his tea pleases him. It just does and he tries to ignore it.

‘You’ve got your constable very well trained, Inspector.’

He jumps at the insinuation before he realises it’s not really there. She’s just smiling at him, absentmindedly rocking the bundle in her arms.

‘I only have the best officers on my team,’ he says, eyes flickering to the corner of the off-white carpet.

(He’s suddenly concerned that Kent can hear him. Not that the praise isn’t true—because it is—but the words suddenly feel too intimate.)

She smiles again, nodding. ‘That’s a comfort.’ 

‘Mrs Howard—‘ 

‘Siobhan, Inspector, please.’

Chandler nods but doesn’t backtrack. ‘I’m afraid we need to go over some details regarding the incident two days ago.’

‘All right.’

She doesn’t sound entirely sure that she believes her own words.

‘I realise it might be distressing—’

‘No, no, it’s all right.’ Her voice is more confident this time, although she does gaze down at the baby and sigh. ‘It’s just… well, it’s horrible, isn’t it? How could somebody…’

She trails off, narrows her mouth. When she looks up again it’s to look straight at Chandler. ‘People do, though, don’t they?’

Chandler nods. They do. Too often.

‘You said to one of my officers that you had no idea what was going on next door.’

‘Yes. That’s correct. The first we heard was when there was a knock on the door.’

‘What concerns us is that you also said that you’d been up and down all night with…’ Chandler trails off and nods towards the child.

‘That’s just about every night, Inspector. I can’t remember when I last slept through the night—oh, God, wait a minute. We had a good night this week, I think—wait—oh, shit.’ She covers her mouth with caged fingers for a moment, winces. As if policemen haven’t heard much worse. ‘She was—it was Monday? Monday-to-Tuesday night? Or Sunday-to-Monday?’

‘The early hours of Tuesday morning.’

She counts back on extended fingers; the expression of panic that grows on her face is organic. Chandler’s seen people craft their horror, their regret and confusion, but her face looks like that of a student who’s just looked at the first page of their exam and doesn’t recognise a single question. There’s no real way to simulate that.

‘I, um—I may have made a bit of a miscalculation,’ she says, wincing apologetically. ‘God knows I’m up and down almost every night, you’d think the one of the infinitesimally few times I’m not would be the one I’d remember.’ 

Chandler tries a conciliatory smile although he doesn’t laugh in the way she’s obviously hoping he will. ‘So that wasn’t the case on the night in question?’

‘Yeah, sorry, I can’t keep anything straight these days. Baby brain, you know?’

Chandler doesn’t but he nods in sympathy anyway.

‘Can’t tell my Wednesdays from my Fridays. They all blur into one to be honest. Ah,’ she catches Kent’s eye as he returns, balancing three full mugs. ‘I don’t suppose you could pop through to the office and fetch the baby records? I would, but—‘ She adjusts the infant in her arms, fusses with the blanket. ‘I’ve got my hands a bit full.’

Kent smiles and, at her urging, balances her cup on the arm of the sofa. ‘What am I looking for, exactly?’

‘A file, A4, leather-bound. Well, pleather-bound.’

Chandler takes both his and Kent’s mugs and lets him double back through the hall, directed haphazardly until he reappears with the file in his hands.

‘Ah, you found it.’

‘The monogramming gave it away.’

‘My mum’s fault.’ Mrs Howard smiles and _hmphs_ a small laugh. ‘There’s a notebook in there where we keep a record of feedings. Just check the date you want, it should be there—and it’ll be clear if it was me or my husband who was up that night.’ 

It doesn’t take long for Kent to find the item she’s talking about, and he somehow manages to pluck it from the haphazardly filed papers without disrupting anything too much. Chandler takes it from his outstretched hand with gentle fingers and flicks through the pages, each dated; the night they’re concerned about starts halfway down one page and he almost misses it.

‘See, that’s me there. I connect my fours.’ She leans over and points out several examples of the number, then lays her finger at the edge of a very different line.  ‘And that— _that_ is Matt. I’m pretty sure that’s the time but you can never be sure with chicken scratchings like that. If you go a few pages back then you’ll see I have to pencil in translations!’

‘And you’re sure he wrote it in at the time?’ Kent asks, his own hand hovering over the smudged ink. ‘He couldn’t have made a note then done it later on? Or perhaps written it in for you?’

‘No, I make a point of having it done immediately.’

‘And he does, too?’

‘If he doesn’t want a telling off, yes.’ She seems good-natured about it now, but Chandler’s got no doubts that she could be stern if she wants to. It’s a secret badly-hidden in the set of her brow. ‘And if I was capable, I’d certainly write any entries in myself. Saves me the trouble.’

She glances up at them in the pause, leaving the inked letters and numbers behind on the paper. She’s got an eerie gaze, searching; it’s not particularly discerning but it’s the intent to try, to look anyway, that sets it apart. She rocks the bundle in her arms in such a slight movement that Chandler almost doesn’t notice. She might not even know; she’s still looking between them both, after all, and it’s supposed to be an instinctual thing, isn’t it?

‘I take it you’ve not got children, Inspector.’

‘No.’ He says it like he always says it; it’s surprising how many times he’s been asked this question. ‘No, I haven’t.’

Her gaze flicks to Kent for a split second, where he’s leant against the arm of the sofa closest to where Chandler’s sat, though she doesn’t ask. Something about him must offer an answer already.

‘Well, a word from the wise.’ She settles back and adjusts her hold the infant. ‘You take what sleep you can get. I’m dead to the world these days if Matt’s looking after this one. I’m not sure a rampaging rhinoceros would manage to get me up, not even if I happened to be napping in a china shop. I was a heavy sleeper before but it was nothing on this.’

‘And you’re relatively sure that you wouldn’t have woken?’

‘Positive. In all likelihood—I can’t say with absolute certainty—Eleanor woke at some point in the night, and of course Matt and I did. Then, if he said he’d go, I’d have been asleep in moments and definitely not within reach of a few thumps on the wall.’

Well, it must have been a bit more than a few thumps on the wall, but Chandler doesn’t say.

‘I mean, that sort of thing can’t bother you if you live in London, can it? When Matt first moved here—he’s a country boy, Herefordshire—he was constantly complaining about things I just never notice. Apparently there’s a noise that sounds like something being dropped from a great height that’s quite common?’

Kent chuckles, and although it’s amicable Chandler can see it’s a little crafted. He’s ingratiating himself; doing quite well at it, in fact. You wouldn’t notice unless you knew him.

‘My sister says the same thing.’

Mrs Howard turns and offers him an unreserved smile. ‘And have you ever heard them?’ 

‘No,’ Kent says, though he makes a face that says he doubts his own answer. ‘Well, maybe a couple of times, but she had to point it out to me and I only realised in retrospect.’ 

‘See?’

Chandler’s not entirely sure that puts the point to rest but he nods anyway; it’s good enough for now. 

‘Do you often overhear your neighbours?’ 

‘Certainly not intentionally, Inspector.’ She fixes him with a sharp look that warns him not to get the wrong idea—not that he’s particularly trying to. ‘Not usually, either. There’s the odd shouting match, I suppose, like everyone. They’ve had a get-together or two. Even then, the worst we got was a bit of loud music, and we didn’t really mind. It comes with living in flats, really, doesn’t it?’

Chandler can’t argue with that. It’s perfectly logical. It’s not even too logical for comfort.

‘I suppose it does,’ he says, trying on a smile for a moment as he gets to his feet. ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Howard. I think that’s all our questions for the moment.’

Out of the corner of his eye Chandler can see Kent nod in agreement, his face softer and less stern than Chandler’s own.

‘You don’t need this?’

‘Why would we, Mrs Howard?' 

‘Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps for speaking to a graphologist?’ 

‘That won’t be necessary.’

Kent smiles, nodding in Chandler’s direction. ‘He’s done a few courses.’ 

Chandler can’t even bring himself to scold Kent for that. It’s a bit familiar, yes, but it makes Mrs Howard’s concerned face twitch into a bit of a smile. He encourages it with a bit of acting of his own, a slight put-upon roll of the eyes; it always helps if they leave the witnesses with a good impression, if they can. They tend to remember a bit more when they like you.

‘It’s not a problem is it?’ she asks as he turns away, the words forced out at the last minute. ‘That I got it wrong the first time?’ 

‘It’s perfectly understandable, Mrs Howard.’ She wouldn’t be the first person to be woken by investigators in the early hours of the morning and get some details mixed up; what concerns Chandler, although he tries not to show it, is the magnitude of this particular detail. ‘Worst comes to worst, you’ll have to give us an amended written statement, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary quite yet.’

Relief passes over her face and they make their excuses; she sees them to the door and they don’t say a word to one another until they hear the  snap of the lock.

‘What do you think, then?’ Chandler asks as they reach the pavement.

‘I’m not entirely sure, sir.’ Kent sighs and tucks his hands into his pockets, shooting Chandler a quick and skeptical look. ‘It certainly puts the husband in the picture. Who spoke to him?' 

‘At the scene? No one, he wasn’t there. Riley spoke to her, though; I think she said he was at work. Late shift, apparently.’

‘Best check. Then I suppose we’ll have to pay him a visit.’

‘You offering to go down to Gatwick?’

Kent scoffs. ‘Not on my bike I’m not.' 

‘What’s the matter with it?’

Chandler only just about stops himself from adding ‘ _this time_.’ 

‘Still at the shop. I keep missing the pick-up windows.’

At any other point, Chandler would have been hard-pressed not to apologise. It is usually his fault that they’re all putting in so much overtime, after all, and their hours aren’t exactly friendly at the best of times. But the past week or so’s been relatively quiet, apart from this new case, and they’ve all been clocking in and out on time. Which means that Kent’s been missing opening hours all on his own. Chandler knows better to be intrigued, but he _is_ intrigued, and as they make their way back to the street he can’t help but try and see if Kent looks tired. He doesn’t, not especially, but it could just be the light. The air’s cool but there’s a clear brightness to the day that suits him.

‘If we’re lucky,’ Chandler starts, clearing his throat as his car comes in to view,‘Miles won’t have rustled up anything more pressing by the time we get back. I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Are you sure, sir? I’m sure Mansell would be more than happy to spend an hour pestering me to get a car. He does love a captive audience.’

‘No, it’ll be enlightening.’ Chandler doesn’t want to think about what he actually means by that. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Howard myself.’

‘We could ask him to come in.’ 

‘An hour’s journey is plenty of time to rehearse.’

‘I suppose it’s better if we rehearse arriving unannounced.’ 

‘I’m surprised you need to.’ 

The self-conscious grin Kent sends over his shoulder makes Chandler want to compliment him more often.

*

They're barely five minutes into the case when the phone rings, and within the hour Chandler's signed off on the last of the paperwork and they're on to the next. Something about a specialty, not that Chandler's convinced they've got one. If he thinks about it, it's probably all the Commander's doing—they aren't technically supposed to operate in Poplar, but he did say where ever they may be. He should probably be glad it's not further afield, especially with the weather like it is.

He'd tried to stay positive on the drive over, though when it had got to the point where he couldn't tell where he was for the rain Chandler gave up hope. It's chucking it down in that way it only can in the small hours of the morning; Chandler's lucky the wind isn't bad enough to make trying to use an umbrella an entirely futile effort, so standing in the front garden of a residential plot swarming with SOCOs waiting for an all clear isn't as bad as it could be.

But he's getting a creeping feeling that the rain will probably finish before forensics do and it isn't getting any lighter. The usual hustle and bustle’s been hobbled by the mud, each step a squelch and even standing still a battle against slowly sinking into the earth. Chandler can’t decide which is better and resigns himself to the constant ebb and flow of dread.

The fluorescent cordon glows on the periphery of Chandler’s vision. Something about the feeble street lamps manages to make them brighter than usual, a painful scar on the face of the night. It doesn’t help that whoever was responsible for putting it up left a long tail of material where the tape’s tied off, letting it flap in the wind. Occasionally it snaps, and Chandler wishes he doesn’t jump. Except he always does.

Someone swears sharply under their breath and Chandler turns to see a figure batting away the plastic with an elbow, leaning away as if they’ve been struck. There’s nothing identifying about them, with their shoulders hunched and hands buried in their pockets. Chandler can’t see their features, for like anyone with an ounce of sense they keep their face down and out of the spray of the rain. But even if he might sympathize with this person’s displeasure with the weather, the fact that they’ve ducked under the cordon and have made their way halfway up the garden path sends unease prickling along his side. He can’t have a compromised scene. He can’t let some hooded bloke stop him before he even begins.

Chandler starts, movements slightly jerking as he holds out a gloved hand. ‘I’m sorry, this is a restricted area, you’ll have to—’

‘It’s only me, sir,’ the figure says, removing a hand from one pocket just long enough to flash a Met police ID. ‘Kent.’ 

‘Oh.’

The flush of embarrassment is immediate and hot, even in the damp. Even the way Kent flashes a grin at him doesn’t lessen the burn.

‘Sorry about—’ He gestures to himself, the hoodie dappled with rain and the unfamiliar jeans. ‘Skip said time was of the essence, not to waste time faffing around. His words, not mine.’

'Bit of a funny way to put it,' Chandler says to the area at large; he’s trying not to look for too long. He nods towards the techs instead. ‘I don't think they're going anywhere any time soon.'

Kent hums. It’s only down to the fact that they’re stood so close that Chandler can hear the sound over the patter of the rain on his umbrella.

‘Well, it’s not every day they whip us off one case and on to another one,’ the constable says, slipping his phone out of a pocket and checking the time. ‘Must be something important about it.’ 

The brief flare of electronic light cuts through the damp night; even Kent winces and flinches away from it before his eyes acclimatise. Humans mustn’t be that much more intelligent than fireflies because Chandler’s gaze is drawn to the glow, although it’s sharp and pallor-inducing. Kent frowns at the screen, squinting, and Chandler follows a line of indentation from his pillow down the side of his face. He surprises himself by lingering on the line of Kent’s jaw, highlighted in shadow; when he realises what he’s doing he turns away, clearing his throat. He flexes his fingers around the handle of his umbrella and tries to think of something— _any_ thing—other than the man before him.

‘It’s all right, sir,’ Kent says with an encouraging look. ‘I’ve got a suit at the station.’

That’s not really what Chandler was bothered about, was it? But it’ll do as an excuse. He hums and tries to look placated. In reality he’s got absolutely no idea what he’s doing with himself and, for once, he’d very much like not to be standing on the cusp of a crime scene.

Kent nods towards the umbrella in Chandler’s hand. ‘You wouldn’t mind, would you, sir?’

He would, actually, but Kent’s looking up at him through the wet air and the glow of the street lamp and he can’t refuse. He probably should, but he _can’t_ and he’s never quite been able to get out of that mindset, has he? Either way, it doesn’t matter now because he’s just nodded, Kent’s just grinned and for some reason he’s shifted the umbrella in the constable’s direction. Kent huddles closer so they fit; it’s not great, both of them are getting opposite wet shoulders but Kent pulls back his hood and ruffles the back of his hair with a hand and Chandler can’t quite find the strength in him to complain.

Kent follows his gaze, watching the movement beyond the fence, as the rain thuds on the fabric above their heads _._ ‘What’ve we got, then?' 

‘I’m not sure yet. Dr Llewellyn’s still on her way.’

Kent glances back over his shoulder, turning inwards and eyes flicking from the flickering police lights and crawling civilian cars. ‘The road’s aren’t brilliant.’

‘Understatement of the week.’

‘I think Miles might give you a run for your money there, sir.’ 

‘Probably.’ Rainwater’s dripping down his arm and sliding under the leather of his glove; Chandler does his best to ignore it, but even his best can’t conceal the slight shiver. ‘Didn’t he give you a brief?’

Kent shrugs. ‘I suppose. I can’t say being woken at daft o’clock and being expected to listen to whatever Skip’s barking at me goes hand in hand.’ As if on cue, he smothers a yawn. ‘It’s difficult enough getting out of bed.’ 

Chandler goes uncomfortably hot again; he doesn’t mention the fact he’d still been in the office when the call had come through. It had been one of those nights where he hadn’t felt as if he wanted to go home at all, let alone sleep. He couldn’t settle, not with everything pinned to their whiteboard so close to coming together but not quite. There were still some gaps with bridges that he thought he might just be able to see if he kept looking—the dim station lights notwithstanding.

The slight stupor of night doesn’t help matters much. It certainly doesn’t help with making Kent less of a mystery. In all of Chandler’s history of early morning raids and catching people off-guard with the right questions, he’s thought that people tended to be a little more open when they’ve just been startled out of sleep or badgered out of bed. Kent almost is—there’s something different about his features—but Chandler can’t place it. He can’t decide whether or not he’s clearer in this light.

‘Whatever it is, we’ve got the problem of the rain.’ Chandler nods towards the fence when Kent looks to him for explanation. ‘The body’s in the garden.’

Kent sighs and buries his hands further into his pockets. ‘I don’t suppose it would be too much to hope for a conservatory, or a shed?’

‘Of course it is. Out in the open.’

‘Really?’

‘Bad choice of words. The family’s doing some repaving, apparently.’ Chandler can’t help but wince at the memory of arriving at the scene just as one of the juniors had managed to knock over a spare pile of paving. ‘Lots of digging involved, and with weather like this… there’s been some movement.’

‘Ah.’ Kent sounds about as pleased as Chandler feels, and he doesn’t even know the worst of it yet. ‘How long?’

Chandler sighs, his breath spilling out in a cloud in the cool air. ‘Long enough, from what I’ve been told.’

‘Not much to go on, then?’

‘I think Miles already has a few bets out on how far into this we’re going to have to call in specialists.’

‘It’s about time we’re due another talking-to about budgets and austerity measures from the Chief Super.’ 

Chandler jumps a little as Kent’s elbow brushes his; it’s just an incidental movement, a byproduct of Kent turning to raise a hand in greeting to a rough-looking Mansell, and he has to apologise for almost jabbing one of the techs in the eye with an umbrella prong. Kent doesn’t say a word, although Chandler’s more than aware of his gaze on the back of his neck, and Chandler clears his throat.

‘Funnily enough, I don’t think they’d be happy with us getting in a cut-price forensic anthropologist.’

‘Rock and a hard place.’ 

Chandler hums in assent; they never really get away from that, do they? It's not unusual for cases to be reassigned, it's done all the time and it depends who's available when but he can't help but wonder if someone's having a laugh. Them, specialists in odd, unusual murders? They've not had a successful arrest yet. They've figured it out, yes, but always too late. Chandler wouldn't have pulled them off a case (no matter how open-and-shut it was beginning to look, with all the usual motives) to put them on something like this. He wouldn't have thought they were capable.

Maybe Ed's reputation's beginning to precede him. It's the most likely explanation; he'll be presenting them with six impossible things before breakfast, or however the saying goes.

Still: better Ed’s reputation than his. They wouldn’t get within ten foot of anything decent going on _his_ reputation.

‘Inspector!’ calls one of the techs, holding one of the slamming garden gates open. ‘You and your team can come through now. I suppose it goes without saying that you should avoid stepping in anything?’

For a moment Chandler wonders if that’s a jibe, although it’s only Maurice and he’s only been working in London for a couple of months, but that’s certainly long enough for word to get round about his… well, he’ll settle for calling them idiosyncrasies. He’s seen professional men jab at much lesser candidates for the sake of ridicule.

‘Come on, sir.' 

Kent’s voice startles him back into the scene, faced with the rain and the cold and the mess. Only Kent’s expression is warm.

‘Best get in there before Mansell. He gets very clumsy when he’s not had enough sleep,’ he continues, inclining his head in the recommended direction of travel. ‘Damage control, and all that. Riley’s usually on top of it but she’s not on call tonight.'

Chandler takes the hint and starts walking, although he does keep an arm outstretched to keep them both out of the worst of the rain. ‘You’d better brief her when she comes in for the shift later on, then.’

Kent beams at him; Chandler’s hard pressed not to do a double take. That brightness in his features and the unorthodox attire just makes him look incredibly young, as far from jaded as it’s possible for a policeman to be. But as much as Chandler knows that he is—he must be, they all are—he can’t help but wonder why Kent would be so pleased. He’s a good detective, they both know that, and he’s proved himself time and time again. Bringing a fellow officer up to date isn’t exactly the sort of thing constables usually yearn for.

Then again, it’s not usually the sort of thing Chandler offers around. Not at this stage, anyway; he might let Miles take a briefing once they have the basics, and he does ask all his officers to present their findings regularly enough, but none of them have any idea what they’re walking into here and he’s already delegating. It is, in a way, a vote of confidence. He supposes. 

‘If we come away from here with anything at all,’ he adds as their steps fall out of rhythm and Kent has to draw back, pulling up his hood.

‘I wouldn’t worry, sir,’ Kent says, wiping a particularly large raindrop away from the corner of his nose. ‘You’ll find something worth looking at.’ 

Chandler flushes at that—or it could be more rain slipping down the back of his collar. He’s more comfortable staying its the fault of the weather. He’s never quite got used to how much confidence Kent places in him. 

The strange high—or low, he can’t really tell which—doesn’t last long. Each and every face that comes out of the back garden is cheerless and bleak; a great deal of them are sopping wet as well, and the mud’s getting everywhere. Chandler’s relatively sure he’s going to have to write this pair of shoes off as a loss. He can even see the logic in Kent’s trainers, and that’s not a sentence he’s ever expected to think.

Even so, when one of the techs mutters, ‘It’s like a bloody pond back there,’ as they pass, Chandler finds himself searching Kent out through the thin air with a commiserative glance and getting one in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: 10 July 2014.
> 
> Thank you guys so much for all the comments, kudos, and support! I absolutely adore hearing from you! :)


	3. Chapter 3

Chandler’s losing the plot, slowly but surely. 

He can see himself doing it.

He’s sending Kent texts for really rather tenuous reasons ( _Have you seen the forms for the Chapman case? They aren’t on Miles’ desk anymore_ or, if he’s sent Kent out to finish off an interview, _Don’t forget to ask about the son-in-law_ ) and he smiles at the responses ( _Have you tried Mansell’s? I wouldn’t blame you if you hadn’t, it’s a minefield_ , for example, or _Bit difficult not to, seeing as he’s looking more & more like the perp_) for a bit too long for what should be standard correspondence in twenty-first century policing. 

He’s taking Kent with him when he has to go out whenever he can make a decent case for it, which is often enough for Miles to start greeting him with exasperated renditions of ‘Long time, no see,’ and pulling overdone surprised faces whenever Chandler accompanies him instead. And every time he takes Kent with him he makes sure to ask him his opinion, see what he thinks—mostly because he is interested in what he thinks, he’s a good detective and wouldn’t be on his team if he didn’t think he was capable, but also a little bit because he kind of likes the way Kent’s manner changes. If he was a gambling man he’d have put money on the fact that this is probably one of those tells Miles had noticed, subtle and more convincing for it. He’s brighter, somehow, but Chandler can’t put his finger on exactly why. 

Not that he’s trying.

On one or two quiet nights, when they hadn’t been authorizing overtime and there wasn’t a case that would keep everyone on duty for thirty-odd hours, Chandler hasn’t objected when Kent approaches him with a few more thoughts on that cold case they’d had to set aside. Alexandra Cartwright’s file. Once they’d even flipped the whiteboards back over, back to the side where they’d left all their notes for safekeeping, and gone through all the information again now that they’d done more reading. Kent had perched on a clear bit of desk and Chandler couldn’t have made himself tell him to get his feet off the chairs if he’d tried.

He’d actually felt disappointed (disappointed!) on that one morning when Kent had rung in sick and they’d done a day without him. 

This is everything he’s spent his life trying not to do, because he knows it can’t end well, but he’s bloody well doing it anyway and he’s ninety-nine percent sure Miles has noticed why and for whom. Which makes everything about a hundred times worse, and he’s exaggerating like a teenager but unfortunately that’s the gravity of the situation.

Miles is right. About both of them.

Chandler should have known, shouldn’t he?

The man’s always bloody right.

*

It’s more or less a week later, and Chandler’s starting to wonder why Miles hasn’t said anything to him yet. 

He must be due.

There’s been ample opportunity. The Poplar remains are beyond Dr Llewellyn’s expertise; she’s done her best with them—male, not young but not old, a once-broken and badly-healed jaw—but nothing can go on the paperwork until they’ve had the anthropologist’s opinion and that department’s surprisingly busy. Igor’s done a bit of background reading that’s given them a few things to think about; even Ed had had to admit that this was outside the bounds of his usual research. Once they’ve finished tracking down who had owned the land and lived in the house for the past decade—the list of which Mansell had complied and left on Chandler’s desk the previous evening—there isn’t much else to do until the report comes back from the specialists. Chandler had hoped that they might be able to return to the Aldam case, maybe lay into Matthew Howard a little more, but as it turns out DI Freedman had arrested and charged another suspect while they’d been reassigned so they’re back in the seemingly perpetual waiting game of policing.

It’s a good thing that Chandler’s quite good with bureaucracy. He can’t say the same for the rest of his team, which is probably why he’s been expecting some meddling. Miles always occupies himself with something, after all, and most recently it’s been concerned with the state of Chandler’s free time. More than usual, anyway.

Which is why Chandler’s starting to get a little weary of bracing himself for the inevitable. Even now, when he’s retired to his office with the excuse of writing up the report concerning their contributions to the Albam case, Miles has let him get on with it. He’s not even ladened him with a significant look or pestered him to join them down the pub. He’s just stood at the bottom of the stairs leading out of the incident room, saying something or other to Riley and Kent. He has been for the past ten minutes, in fact, and Chandler can’t decide whether or not he should be concerned. Drastic personality change is a symptom of lots of things, isn’t it?

He daren’t ask. He’s not one to complain about being left in peace.

Someone’s phone beeps, loud and insistent, and Riley’s voice carries further than their conversation.

‘Oh, that’ll be the little ones,’ she says as she silences the ringer. ‘See you tomorrow. Tell Judy I say hello.’

There’s a gruff answer that may or may not include another vague threat concerning the recipe for Riley’s ginger cake, but she only laughs.

‘You’ll have to work harder than that. That’s my gran’s to give out, not mine, skip. Night, boss!’

Chandler looks up, mid-word, just in time to return her raised hand with half a nod. He really should just look straight back to his words, before he forgets his train of thought, but he doesn’t because Miles has just said something else—presumably equally gruff—and Kent is grinning.

_Damn_ it. He’s supposed to be trying not to let this happen. Whatever this is. Whatever Chandler hopes it is.

‘I’d better be getting home, too,’ Kent says. There’s another shuffle that sounds like him shrugging on his jacket. ‘You don’t mind, do you, skip?’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve sat in a pub on my own. Though sometimes I don’t wonder if you lot aren’t in collusion with Judy and the boys.’

Kent chuckles. ‘It’d be more than my job’s worth.’

‘At least you’ve got one thing straight.’

Chandler tries to stop listening. He mostly succeeds, only he can’t stop his head from snapping up when Miles’ tone turns scheming.

'I reckon you're in there, son.'

Kent opens and shuts his mouth, letting Miles’ friendly clap on the shoulder rattle his limbs. His eyes don’t follow the direction of Miles’ emphatic nod but he doesn’t have to; there’s only one other person. Chandler doesn’t hear whatever Kent does manage to say—if anything—because he snaps back to looking at the file as soon as Miles glances towards his office. He’s not giving him the satisfaction of being caught looking.

‘Just pull your finger out, eh?’

Miles chuckles in a manner that’s undoubtedly supposed to be encouraging. Kent clears his throat, the sound so odd and stilted that it must be accompanied with an uncomfortable expression, a pained look. Chandler can’t check. He turns back to his half-baked sentence and finds that he has no idea where he was going with it. Something about resource management, expense reports and… acronym development? That can’t be right.

Chandler swears under his breath and goes in search of another page that might jog his memory. He intensifies his look of concentration as Miles’ steps swerve away from where he’s left Kent’s walking out of the incident room and instead take him towards the door of Chandler’s office.

Miles opens without preamble. ‘Why don’t you go for a drink with him?’

‘I’ve, um…’ Chandler searches for specificity but none comes to mind. ‘I’ve got something on.’

‘Like hell you have. You’ve got the social repartee of a tree frog.’

Chandler pauses, almost smiles. ‘That’s one I haven’t heard before.’

‘I don’t hear you saying it’s not true.’

‘Well, I’m certainly not an amphibian.’

Miles shoots him a look that tries to say that he’s far from amused. There’s a twist to the corner of his mouth that says he is but he’s not going to indulge that yet. Chandler has a funny feeling he’s going to be the centre of anecdote for Judy in about three-quarters of an hour, and if that’s what it takes to avoid answering this question, then he’ll take it.

The problem is that Miles isn’t going to offer it to him.

‘I can tell you’ve thought about it,’ he says, looking more and more like he isn’t going to budge.

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t entirely believe you.’

Chandler doesn’t. What he’d really like is if Miles could just leave it be. If he could leave him be that would be absolutely revolutionary, but he’s not managed to do that in the entire three years of their acquaintance so Chandler isn’t holding out much hope. 

Miles picks up a stray photocopy from the neat pile on Chandler’s desk. ‘You could discuss that case you’re both still working on.’

‘How do you—?’

‘I know everything, boss.’ Miles doesn’t look up from the page, though Chandler can tell he’s only pretending to read it. ‘I have children; you’ve got to.’

‘You can’t discuss cadavers and disembowelments in the pub.’

‘What do you mean? We do it all the time.’ Miles tuts. ‘I think Buchan’s quiz team’s speciality is gruesome Victorian murder.’

‘You know what I mean.’

In all honesty, Chandler doesn’t actually know what he means; it just seems like a feasible excuse.

Miles looks at him like he’s gone mad (although that’s not too far out of the ordinary). ‘You’re barking up the old-fashioned tree.’

In a way, he is. Except he’s not. He’s the last person who should be, really, isn’t he? Everything about this conversation—this situation—this _feeling_ is nontraditional. But in the basics, at the very bottom of it all, it’s not all that revolutionary, is it? Chandler knows enough about history to know that he’s not making it, not like this. He’s almost given up on influencing it at all.

‘I knew I was half right.’

His sergeant is fond of non-sequiturs, Chandler knows, but that sentence still elicits a frown.

‘You never once said woman, you know,’ Miles explains, handing him back the papers. ‘Whenever I asked. Always _someone_.’

‘I didn’t…’ Chandler trails off and Miles doesn’t stop him from messing with the corners of the file. Lining up each page, each paperclip. Pressing his forefinger along the line of a struggling sticky note. ‘I don’t think I ever got that far in conceptualizing it.’

‘Never got far enough down that road to rule a _him_ out either, then.’

Chandler supposes that he should feel some sort of innate aversion to the suggestion, a sudden and sharp delineation between what he wants and what he doesn’t. It’s always what he’s assumed other people must feel, the way they go on about it. The way they take such offence at the mere suggestion of any sort of unconventional relationship. But he doesn’t—and he hasn’t, he never has. He’s always assumed that it’s just because he’s not bothered either way, but now that Miles is standing there and asking specifically about what he does want, about men, about _Kent_ … it can’t be that. Because he still doesn’t mind.

Miles’ sly smile widens.

(Maybe he does know everything.)

‘So why don’t you?’ 

‘Miles.’

‘It a perfectly reasonable question, boss.’ 

‘It’s not…’ Chandler trails off again and sighs. ‘It isn’t a good idea.’

‘I think it’s a bloody brilliant idea.’

‘Why?’

It’s more of a rhetorical question than anything else, an exasperated outburst, but Miles is going to give him an answer whether he wants one or not. He tends to do that, Chandler should expect it, but he still stares at the sergeant in disbelief as he gathers up the words he wants to use. He looks like he’s preparing to read out a mental list.

‘Because maybe then he’d stop sneaking glances at you when he thinks none of us can see and actually get some work done instead.’

They don’t even have to define who _he_ is anymore, do they? He hadn’t noticed before but they haven’t said Kent’s name once. Chandler can’t tell if he prefers it. It’s easier not having to actually say his name, to conjure up the image of his face, but then again—the assumption. The expectation that it’s him. Is that more pervasive?

Chandler's not going to think about it. He’s just going to jab back instead.

‘He gets more work done than you.’

‘He’s got a better incentive.’

(He should have known it wasn’t going to work.)

‘Oh, thanks a lot, Miles,’ Chandler says, milking the exasperation as he sits back in his chair, bending an arm to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

‘I’m pretty sure there actually was a compliment in there,’ Miles says, no doubt smothering amusement. ‘Somewhere. And not from me.’

Chandler doesn’t know where he’d start looking for one. If he was going to. Which he isn’t. (Not really.)

‘I’m just saying, we’d look the other way. If you wanted to.’ 

‘No, you wouldn’t.’

‘Wouldn’t we?’ The question is falsely light-hearted; it’s a challenge that Miles places on the table. ‘Night, boss.’

And, for a fraction of a fleeting moment, Chandler believes that they just might.

*

Miles’s pushing makes Chandler more aware of every evening that he and Kent end up spending in the darkened incident room. They’re all spent on either side of the glass of his office, of course, but something about the implication of Miles’ parting words lingers. Chandler’s glancing up more often, casting his gaze over the desk closest to his door as if it’s a touchstone. The most disconcerting thing is that he isn’t entirely sure that he hasn’t done it before. He might only be noticing it now.

The next time Chandler looks up and finds Kent peering at his computer screen, chin propped up on one hand as the other hovered over the mouse, it’s already been a long day and maybe that’s why he doesn’t immediately catch himself. He can’t help but think that Kent looks… well, he can’t really put words to it, but all of a sudden his usual presence there after hours feels like a reason for concern. He needn’t do it, after all, but there he is. Doing… something.

Chandler doesn’t know what, exactly, and for some reason that’s suddenly something that needs to be rectified. A matter that needs to be seen to. Not a personal concern at all. Not if anyone asks.

He sets down his pen gently, fingers cradling the metal until the barrel comes to rest parallel to his watch, his phone. He gathers the breath and effort required to speak—they’ve spent so long in an accepted, comfortable silence that it feels as if there’s an extra layer of protection to be broken. To be breached. Chandler leans a little forward until the edge of his desk’s digging into his ribs, his palms pressing on the clear surface.

‘Kent?’

There’s no reply. There’s no response, either, and that’s unusual; normally Chandler only has to think about attracting Kent’s attention and somehow he’s already got it. Or maybe it just feels like that to him. Either way an actual utterance of his name should have brought his gaze up from whatever it is he’s reading.

Chandler looks pointedly in his direction, as if that’s going to do anything of note. It’s almost all he can think to do, though, until he remembers he’s got legs and knows how to use them. He gets up and walks through his office with the sort of indigence that, in any other person, he would think was a cover for something else.

He leans out into the incident room proper, bracing one arm against the doorframe. ‘Kent.’

Still nothing.

For some odd reason there’s panic welling in Chandler’s chest; he only barely recognises it since it’s so out of place but he can’t shake the feeling. It’s the same one he’d got when they’d tried to ring Kent and got no answer, when Miles had pointed him through a set of hospital doors and there he was. But then isn’t now and Kent’s sat there in his line of sight, and as far as Chandler knows there’s nothing lurking around the corner. No matter what Miles might think.

Chandler sighs, more to himself than anyone else, and walks across the threshold to make for Kent’s desk. They don’t usually disturb each other—or, rather, if they do it’s Kent who will do the disturbing—unless it’s to announce a departure, but Chandler finds himself approaching Kent’s shoulder hoping that this (whatever this is) won’t trigger Kent’s exit. For once, he actually feels like talking.

(At least, that’s what he thinks this urge is. Hopes.) 

‘Kent?’ he asks again, a little more forceful this time despite the proximity, and he rests steepled fingers on a pile of annotated forms at the corner of the desk.

‘Sir!’

Chandler’s first instinct is to apologise for making him jump, because he knows from past experience that Kent has a bit of an exaggerated startle reflex, but there’s an echo of colour rising in his face that suggests he shouldn’t draw attention to it. He's well aware he's just standing there, a little dumbstruck, for no apparent reason while Kent flaps around trying to separate the papers from the manila folders and the wires.

'Sorry—should've—the volume—'

He hadn’t noticed, before—maybe he was trying not to, because he’s been noticing too much lately—but those are definitely a pair of earphones hanging from the loose grip of Kent’s fingers. The plastic’s black, unlike the ubiquitous white that creep out of coat and jean pockets on the street, and if he was looking for excuses then he’d just emphasise the fact that he was unlikely to spot that through the low light from where he’d been sat. It’s the sort of thing you’d have to be looking for.

In a moment of madness Chandler is almost relieved, because Kent can’t possibly think he’s looking too closely now, can he?

‘Sorry, um,’ Kent says, looking between Chandler and his hand as he deposits the electronics rather awkwardly on a pile of crinkled papers. ‘Yeah, sorry. Sometimes a repetitive beat helps. Thinking things through, spotting patterns, all that.’ Something about Chandler’s face must still look confused, because Kent presses on. ‘Putting the same thing on repeat until I don’t really hear it anymore gives me the headspace I need, sometimes.’ 

‘Oh.’

Chandler's never tried that. He's never even considered it as an option, really; he's one of those people who likes the quiet. He'd relied on silent study rooms at uni, it's why he'd never be able to put up with flatmates. He wouldn't even have the option of just drowning them out, like Kent had apparently just been doing to him. Though they do seem to make a point of silence.

Kent watches him from where he's sat, threatening a smile. ‘You’re getting a little slow at telling me off, sir.’

‘I wasn’t—I wasn’t going to,’ he says, stumbling, but it's true. He hadn't even thought about doing that. ‘It’s not strictly protocol but it isn’t against it, either. I don’t think.’

It’s been a while since he’s had a good look at the handbooks. There comes a point, though, when Chandler suspects an officer would do just about anything just to be able to think a little more clearly. Within the bounds of the law, of course, but he’s sure this is within those particular lines. It’s healthier than the blurring he gets up to, anyway.

Kent does smile at him then, just before turning back to his computer. 'You're more generous than the skipper, then.' He clicks something, shoves a pile of files a little to the left with his elbow, and the shade of the shallow light cast on his features changes. 'He gave me hell.'

‘When doesn’t he?’ 

Chandler lets out a gentle laugh with the question; at least they agree on one thing. It's almost comforting to know he's not the only one in Miles' (well-intentioned) firing line. Though in the next moment the terrifying notion that it might be the _same_ firing line—the _same_ ammunition—arrives and suddenly his mouth goes very dry. 

He covers the slight splutter by clearing his throat and asking, ‘Any particular favourite?'

'Oh, I wouldn't say so, sir,’ Kent says, offhand as if they discuss their musical preferences at the end of every shift. 'I think they're calling it a house classic now. Showing my age.’ He huffs out a laugh and scrolls through the incident report on the screen. ‘But it's familiar and that's the key. I don't have to think about it, it's just sort of... there.'

‘It’s, uh…’ Chandler tries to find the right words to use so that he doesn't sound meddlesome. ‘Rather loud.’ 

‘That’s sort of the point.’ Kent relaxes, smiles. ‘I think Riley’s already started a campaign to save my hearing.’

Chandler just says, ‘Well, I think she’s going to need a bit more backing to convince you,’ as Kent rescues his phone from the haphazard span of papers and presses in the passcode, fingers deftly finding the pause button without looking. The muffled, tinny sound stops and the room suddenly seems oddly quiet, still. Almost intimate.

He tries not to let it get to him. ‘What exactly have you been doing?’

‘Trying to piece together our vic’s last twelve hours.’ Kent wafts a hand over the pages and photos in front of him, though the movement moves air a little too vigorously and he ends up chasing one or two wayward receipts. ‘It’s, um… well, it’s pretty foggy at the moment.’

It’s tremendously obvious to Chandler now he’s working backwards from the answer. Kent’s sat surrounded by receipts and paused CCTV footage on his monitor; there are three cups of tea with just the dregs left lined up on the last free edge; the page under Kent’s hand is covered with his handwriting, most of it with lines through it. The Hogarth print that pokes out from under an open file would immediately seem irrelevant, but Ed had said it’s called _The Reward of Cruelty_ and depicts the dissection of criminals. The moralization angle, if they will. It’s their latest train of thought.

They shouldn’t still be working on it, strictly speaking, but none of them had taken the files back to where they’d come from and Chandler always liked to have something to look at, just in case. Something to dive back into when his mind got too much. He hadn’t expected anyone else to take any notice, but somehow the box has made its home under Kent’s desk and here they are.

Chandler resists the urge to straighten a line of papers that's sliding off the edge of the desk, but Kent must notice the curl of his fingers because he uses the pause to reach over and do it himself.

‘Find anything of note?’

‘Not particularly,’ Kent says, drawing a hand over his brow as he leans back in his chair. ‘I’ve tried to cross-reference everything to the original case file, triple-checking the facts we’re sure of, you know. They haven’t cut corners.’

That fact isn’t especially surprising. Chandler’s heard of the original investigating officer—he’s the sort of man you wouldn’t dream of asking to come down to the station for an interview. They would have to go to him when they wanted to speak with him. That’s what the (unspoken) protocol is for someone with that many commendations to his name.

‘I sort of wish they had.’ Kent sighs through his nose. ‘Then we might have something to go on.’

Chandler sighs as well and finds that somewhere in the past few moments he’s managed to somehow rest his hand on the back of Kent’s chair, unconsciously resting his fingers close to the man’s shoulder. He doesn’t have a chance to do anything about it before Kent’s sprung forward again, leaning over the desk with a seemingly renewed vigour.

‘I could go through the case papers,’ Kent says, running a hand over his forehead and going searching in the piles for the file in question. ‘We haven’t taken a close look at nonmaterial evidence yet.’

‘You don’t have to stay late to do this, you know,’ Chandler says, almost in a murmur.  ‘It isn’t a current case. We haven’t even had it officially reopened.’

‘It’s fine.’ Kent sounds earnest, even from where he’s ducked to leaf through a drawer. ‘I didn’t fancy going home yet, anyway. Not when my flatmates have decided it’s about time to have their quarterly blowout.’

Chandler recoils, hand flinching away from the chair. He can’t even hope that Kent won’t notice, because it’s involuntary and therefore untempered, but the younger man just looks up over his shoulder at him and grins.

‘Yeah, my thoughts exactly.’ His eyes flicker to where Chandler had rested his fingers before turning to the case photographs. ‘I’m all in favour of a drink but there’s only so much I can stand.’

‘Not exactly what I’d call polite.’

(Chandler can’t tell why it puts his back up so much.)

‘It’s fine, they give me plenty of advance warning. Mostly in the form of pestering, trying to get me to join in this time, but I left my student days behind a long time ago.’

Chandler nods at the papers strewn about the desk, hands in pockets. ‘Seems like a contradiction in terms.’

Kent huffs out a laugh. ‘I didn’t do much of this back then.’

That’s a thought. Chandler’s not put much time in to wondering what his team got up to before they were his team. He’s got the gist from Miles and occasionally they’ve had dealings with old cases, old haunts, old faces, but before that? He knows they weren’t all born fully formed but he can’t imagine Kent as a scruffy student, all last night’s beer and this morning’s black coffee. Then again, maybe he can. He remembers his first day in Whitechapel, after all.

‘Doubt I’d be able to shake the hangover anymore, either.’ 

The smirk in Kent’s voice attracts Chandler’s attention, but he can’t find it on his face. Maybe he’s too slow to recognise these things—it wouldn’t be the first time—but Kent’s back to peering at his screen, switching between tabs. Each page is a mess of text, abstracts and titles and academic papers; Chandler recognises the website’s header as something the Met would not be willing to spend its already stretched budget on.

‘How’d you get into that?’

‘Ed’s got a subscription. He leant me his login.’

Chandler leans a little further over Kent’s shoulder, trying to ignore how close their mismatched breathing gets them, and scowls at the title plastered across the screen. It’s not something he’d want coming up under his name on any sort of account, never mind whether or not it’s rendered necessary by their investigation.

‘I wouldn’t worry, sir,’ Kent says with a chuckle, as if he’s read Chandler’s mind. ‘I’m sure he’s got much weirder searches to his name.’

Their eyes catch in the murky light; Chandler’s quick to look away and acquiesce. ‘Probably.’

(He doesn’t avert his gaze forever, though, and no matter what Miles says he must be imagining the small, secret smile on Kent’s face. It’s a trick of the light, a product of embarrassment. It must be.)

‘Do you still have the procedure report, sir, or has Skip—’ Kent drops the end of his sentence as he glances at the watch on his wrist, double-checking it with the digital clock at the corner of his monitor. ‘God, is that the time?’

It’s the sort of thing that should sound staged, should feel like he’s fobbing him off, but in Kent’s voice it’s sincere. Evidently he’s not looking for an answer, either, because he locks his computer with a quick stretch of his hand across the keyboard and pushes away from the desk. Chandler almost jumps in his haste to give him the room to manoeuvre.

‘If I go now,’ Kent says, grabbing at his coat, ‘I’ll probably catch the coffee shop at the end of the road just before closing.’

Chandler nods and turns to walk back into his office. He knows when someone’s made their excuses, when he’s been dismissed, and for some reason watching Kent gather his things feels too familiar.

(Maybe he’s projecting.)

(He’s probably projecting.)

‘D’you want anything?’

Chandler stops, turns, frowns. ‘I thought you’d be going home.’

‘Nah, they won’t be done for a while.’ Kent does that lopsided smile again, twisting a pen between his fingers. ‘Best to leave it until they’re all passed out and I can just step over them.’

That doesn’t sound like much of a plan, but for a moment Chandler reckons that it’s probably the sort of thing he’d end up doing, too, if faced with the same situation. 

‘So, anything?’ Kent drops the pen into its holder and buries both hands in his coat pockets. ‘Honestly, I don’t mind.’

It hadn’t crossed Chandler’s mind that it might, but he still finds himself searching for an answer that isn’t really there. Which is frightening, frankly, because it should be a yes or no answer and all he can come up with is a maybe.

Kent smiles and fidgets with his keys this time. ‘There won’t be any food left. Trust me, they’re cleared out by lunchtime, there’s no chance now.’

He’ll have to remember that. In case Kent asks again one lunchtime. He looks like he might, if he isn’t left out in the cold now (which, Chandler will admit, is unlikely; he’s done that once before and it’s one time too many, no matter what happens) and although it terrifies him, the prospect doesn’t seem like a fundamentally flawed idea. And, although it’s probably not quite what he had in mind, it might get Miles of his back at the very least. 

Chandler allows himself half a smile. ‘Just a coffee, then.’

‘Your usual?’

(It’s quite difficult to ignore the way Kent’s mouth has curved into a restrained grin, the sort of that says it’ll probably break through completely as soon as Chandler’s in a different room.)

He hums and nods; an odd combination of assent but it’s strange enough he’s giving it in the first place. But it doesn’t feel entirely wrong. He’d expected it to. He had thought that Miles’ pestering would colour all his thoughts, but Kent’s pleased demeanour feels… he hesitates to say right, but _all right_ fits. Almost.

‘Shouldn’t be too long, sir,’ Kent says as he walks towards the doors. ‘No queue at this time.’

Chandler huffs out a singular laugh—he knows Kent hears—and tilts his head to read the file labels properly. He’d been too distracted by Kent’s emanating warmth to take them in before, and he picks one at random just to get that realisation out of his head.

_‘_ Do you mind?’ he asks, holding up the indicated file, just before Kent ducks through the doorway.

Kent catches his eye with an encouraging smile. ‘Knock yourself out, sir.’

*

‘You heading home, boss?’

There’s a degree of incredulity to Miles’ question that Chandler knows is warranted. After all, it’s not often that he’s reaching for his coat at more or less the same time as everyone else. It feels odd enough to be doing it, so he can’t quite imagine how strange it must look to them. Though he’s had a few late nights lately, both before and after the one with Kent and the coffee that’s still giving him reason to pause at odd times, so perhaps Miles thinks this is a pre-emptive measure. It might be, actually.

‘You aren’t coming down with something, are you?’ Riley asks with a grin, its slight crookedness borrowed from the skipper himself. 

‘No,’ Chandler says, wrinkling his nose at the notion. ‘I thought I’d go and have another look at the scene.’

‘Don’t know why, we won’t get the forensics back for another week. And that’s only if Mansell’s given up on that bird.’ 

‘Sure you won’t come for drinks with us, boss?’ Riley asks, hopeful as she elbows Miles. ‘Skip’s buying.’

‘Don’t rub it in,’ Miles grumbles as he searches his coat pocket for his wallet.

Chandler doesn’t particularly want to know what bet he lost this time. He prefers to stay ignorant about that sort of thing, especially when they’ve fallen into another patch of quiet policing. The anthropologist is more evasive than Llewellyn on a bad day, there are quite literally no more reports to write (Chandler’s checked), and the only thing in the pipeline is a suspected GBH which has come to a screeching halt. They can’t speak to the victim—not yet—because none of Miles’ charm will get a nurse to let them through the door, they can’t put another rush on forensics when another overwrought email concerning cutbacks from the Chief Super landed in their inboxes that morning, and Chandler’s had quite enough of staring at photographs, thank you very much. He might as well go and look at the place in person. He might think of something.

Miles looks as him like he knows his reasoning’s tenuous. Chandler ignores it and doubles back into his office under the pretense that he’s forgotten something. Which, of course, he hasn’t. He _doesn’t_.

‘D’you want someone to come, sir?’ Kent asks when Chandler reemerges, patting his pockets.

‘There’s no overtime in it for you, I’m afraid.’

‘No, but I might get a lift out of it.’ Kent shrugs, shoving his hands in his coat. ‘My bike’s gone again, and if I can steer clear of buses and tubes, I’ll do it.’

Miles overdoes a nod as he shrugs on his overcoat, catching Kent’s eye. ‘Fair enough.’

(Chandler can’t tell if that’s supposed to be some sort of convincing. He wouldn’t put it past Miles. But he’s getting a little tired of being suspicious and he’s the last man in the world to deny a distaste for public transport.)  

Kent turns to him with a careful look. ‘You wouldn’t mind, sir?’ 

‘No, of course not.’

Nowhere’s that far from anywhere else in London, after all. It just sometimes feels that way. 

‘It’s just that knowing my luck,’ Kent begins, breaking into a smile, ‘I’ll wait for a train then it’ll be held at a signal for about three days—’ 

Mansell chuckles from where he’s stood digging about in his pockets, looking for whatever it is he’s lost this time. ‘That’s not even an overstatement, sir.’

Kent grins at him over his shoulder before continuing. ‘—or I’ll wait for a bus for about a year and then two will turn up at once, neither of which are the one I’m looking for.’

‘It sounds as if it would be rude of me to refuse.’

For a moment, Kent looks startled; Chandler wonders if he’s said something terribly out of order until the look’s replaced by something much more akin to amicable annoyance as Miles cuffs him around the shoulder.

'He'll be glad of the company,’ Miles says with a dark laugh, nodding in Chandler’s direction. 'Posh toff like him? They'll spot him a mile off.'

There's no need to expand on who _they_ are; even so, Miles gets the round of half-smothered sniggers he's looking for.

Miles gestures towards Kent, giving him the once-over. 'Mind you, you're not that much better.'

'Cheers, skip,’ Kent says with a sort of relish as he hooks a scarf around his neck. 'It's always a comfort to know I'm not turning into you.'

Riley scoffs. 'I beg to differ.'

‘Shut up.’

‘Make me.’

‘You know, sometimes I only _think_ you’re children,’ Miles says. ‘You don’t have to prove it.’ He watches on as Riley tries to ruffle Kent’s hair and he bats her hand away, then turns to Chandler with a sly smile. ‘You'll have to hold hands when you cross the street.'

Chandler chooses to ignore the way the back of his neck goes hot and puts the way Kent goes a bit pink down to whatever it is Mansell’s just said into his ear.

‘Right then,’ Miles announces, reaching for his keys, ‘that’s me finished. Good luck with… whatever it is you’re doing with the scene.’

That’s when Chandler knows he’s reading too much into everything because even that sounds suggestive.

‘Oh, and someone should probably go and fish Buchan out of the depths again.’

‘I’ll go.’ Riley sighs, putting down her bag and coat, although she doesn’t look particular inconvenienced. ‘Maybe he’ll go for a drink with us.’

*

Chandler doesn’t need a police cordon to tell him where the scene was. It’s seared onto his mind, just like all the others. But it’s only when they’re rounding the final approaching corner that Chandler realises Kent hasn’t needed reminding either.

‘According to the perp’s statement,’ Kent says, gesturing with a shoulder to the archway. The lights that are supposed to glow pink—a regeneration effort—try and falter. ‘They all approached from the opposite side, sir.’

‘I’m not sure I’m taking his word for it,’ Chandler says, his breath ghosting in the air. ‘He’s not the one that ended up with a knife in his side.’

‘It’s the best we’ve got until the forensics comes back, sir.’ Kent shrugs when Chandler looks at him over his shoulder. ‘Self-defence isn’t entirely out of the question.’

‘You saw Williams. He’s not the one without a scratch on him.’

Chandler’s vaguely aware that, apparently, he’s the one who’s starting to sound like Miles. It’s disconcerting and he knows he doesn’t have the demeanour to carry off the casual dismissal. He’s too strict, too straight-laced.

They step up onto the curb at the same time, their steps clicking on the pavement out of sync. There’s a flurry of barking and a furious flutter of wings from a nearby garden that breaks London’s noisy silence.

‘Just making sure to consider all the options, sir,’ Kent says, closer to Chandler’s shoulder than he expects. It’s a good thing he’d just used up all his nervous energy starting at the eruption of pigeons.

Chandler turns and looks at him with what he hopes is an encouraging smile. ‘I know.’ 

Kent looks away before Chandler can ascertain if his expression did the trick. Chandler removes his hands from his pockets and glances up and down the road instead, his gaze slowing over the paving slabs he knows to be the crime scene in micro. He clears his throat just as something tight and uncomfortable wraps itself around his windpipe.

‘What do you make of the visibility?’

It’d been a bit of a scrum the last time they’d been there, what with all the pulling people off each other and making sure the rest didn’t get away over garden fences. Chandler’s been toying with an idea for most of the afternoon, one that isn’t much of an idea at all but it’s better than thinking of nothing at all. He’s looked at all the photographs of the scene for so long he recognises them better than he does the back of his hand, and not once do you get a view that illuminates the greater area. Not even on the wide shots.

Kent looks at his watch. ‘It’s about the same time, isn’t it?’

Chandler hums, looking intently at the brickwork as Kent walks backwards off the pavement. Every now and then he thinks he can see the mahogany stain of blood on the mortar, on the terracotta, but of course he can’t. It’d all been on the piece of metal siding, and they’ve already sampled that.

‘Well,’ Kent says, craning his neck to see the buildings on either side of the structure. ‘You could probably see through here if you really tried. And I mean really, really tried. Smushed your face up against the window sort of tried.’ He smiles, although he doesn’t look at Chandler. ‘And even the flats on higher floors would only see the very edges. Those and the train tracks, I suppose.’

Chandler nods; he’d suspected as much. ‘So it’s just the street.’

‘Which, evidently, is quiet.’

Kent walks back to Chandler’s side; for the first time Chandler is aware of how alone they are. Except they aren’t really, there are people in these flats, people in their homes, probably watching X Factor or Mastermind or the newest Nordic noir. There are eight million people in this city. They are not alone.

‘Not necessarily that night, sir,’ Kent says as he comes to a stop, the toes of his shoes just on the right side of the offending paving slab, the one Chandler’s been both scrutinizing and trying to avoid.

‘We’ve had no calls.’ Actually, there was that one that was just complaining about hoodlums in general, but he and Miles had agreed that was just a wind-up. Chandler nods towards the police placard that’s somehow ended up propped against the brick of the arch. ‘We’ve had the signs up.’

Kent pulls a face that says he’s unsure of how successful that measure’s been. Chandler agrees with him, to an extent. It looks like the only attention anyone’s given it is to vomit down the front.

‘Either way—'

Chandler’s gaze swivels back to where Kent’s stood; he’s almost surprised to find eyes looking back at him already. Kent falters for a moment but Chandler just puts that down to the expression of distaste that undoubtedly lingering on his face.

‘—if you’re looking to make a case for GBH with intent, then I’d say waiting until you’d followed your vic into a black spot before pouncing is rather indicative of intent.’ He pauses, shrugs. ‘So’s carrying a switchblade.’

Chandler doesn’t miss the way Kent stiffens at his own suggestion.

‘We can get him on that, at the very least,’ he says, clumsily trying some sort of reassurance. ‘I’d still like to know how they knew the council hadn’t got around to fixing the CCTV that’s been on the blink, though.’

‘I can check if there’s been any maintenance done recently first thing in the morning, sir.’

‘Good plan,’ Chandler says, aware that his tone’s gone a little too warm—it might be condescending, he can’t quite tell. ‘Weren’t you switching sides a moment ago?’

A smile pulls at the edges of Kent’s mouth. ‘Keeping you on your toes, sir.’

‘Sounds like something Miles has told you to do.’

‘No, sir.’ Kent’s smile falters for a heartbeat. ‘All my own initiative.’

Chandler doesn’t really know what to make of that. Their silence is broken by a seemingly distant buzzing that that first Chandler thinks is his phone. It turns out to be Kent’s—probably—but he makes no move to answer it. 

‘Was that what you wanted to check out, sir?’

‘What? Oh—’ Chandler’s still preoccupied by the unanswered phone. ‘Yes. We should—get going, I suppose. You’ll be wanting to get home.’ 

He starts walking before he can think about how much of a train wreck that answer ended up being.

‘It’s not far,’ Kent says, in a placating sort of voice, as they climb back into Chandler’s car. ‘Only a few streets over.’ 

‘Doesn’t that bother you?’

Chandler can’t help but ask as he switches the engine on; he’s glad for the need to glance around them as he pulls away from the curb so he has an excuse not to look at Kent look at him.

‘Not really. There’s not a street in London that’s not had some sort of crime on it, sir. There’s no point in trying to escape it.’

Chandler wonders, for a brief moment as he turns the car left, if that’s supposed to be some sort of advice. The way Kent says it suggests a certain philosophy, a degree of suggestion. Chandler knows he wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else if he knew someone had been found virtually on his doorstep. He has enough trouble leaving the ghosts there.

Do these places ever stop being crime scenes? They don't to them, they've only seen them with police cordons and blacklights and paper suits. But to someone, to some family, these houses will be home. A teenage boy will walk his faithful mongrel through his favourite park, where Chandler and his team had picked through bones and blood. A couple will arrange to meet in the same pub where they'd been called to a shooting. People will still be buried in churchyards they've carried bodies away from. Someone will eat their lunch everyday at one o'clock sat on a bench in Mitre square. Someone must have taken over the Ripper's council flat by now, whoever he was. Kent will go on living and laughing and working in the shadow of an archway that Chandler won’t be able to forget. He hasn’t forgotten any of them yet.

Kent somehow manages to intersperse directions in the rest of their conversation so that Chandler doesn’t realise he’s being directed until they’re suddenly parked outside Kent’s building. Of all things, it’s the red front door that strikes Chandler as unusual. Though painted doors don’t say anything about the occupants, do they? Chandler’s still wracking his brain for the answer—any answer—when Kent unbuckles his seatbelt.

‘Thanks again for the lift,’ he says, smiling through the low light cast by a nearby streetlamp.

‘It’s no trouble.’

(It is, a bit, but not for the reason he thinks.)

‘Still, thanks.’ Kent looks away and chuckles. ‘I’d say I’d return the favour any time you like, but I don’t think you’d fit on the back of my bike.’

The thought’s so plainly ridiculous that both of them end up laughing, warmth in the interior, separated from the night. Chandler’s trying not to look too alarmed at the idea—because he is a little bit; is that how familiar they’ve become?—but he mustn’t be going a very good job of it, because Kent looks at him again and smiles even wider in that quiet way of his.

Chandler reins himself in. ‘What’s the matter with it tonight?’ 

‘I leant it to a mate of mine,’ Kent says, looking a little sheepish. ‘He’s trying to impress a girl and I owe him a favour. Though why he thinks she’s going to be impressed by _that_ , of all things, is beyond me.’

‘At least we’re not responsible for that particular mystery.’

Kent huffs out a single laugh. ‘Even you would get absolutely nowhere with it, sir.’

Chandler smiles, although he’s not entirely sure if it’s a compliment. Kent’s voice is kind and familiar, though, and if there’s a handful of people he’s likely to give the benefit of the doubt, Kent’s one of them. They fall into a companionable silence (at least, that’s what Chandler reckons it is; it’s an odd feeling) but for some reason they both move to gesture at the same time and their hands collide somewhere in the vicinity of the gear stick. Chandler tries not to shy away too obviously.

(It doesn’t really work.)

‘Sorry—’

Kent’s suddenly very interested in picking a bit of stray cotton from his suit jacket. ‘Do you fancy a cup of tea, sir?’

Panic ignites in Chandler’s throat; what’s been warm and comfortable is suddenly acrid, sharp.

This is how it starts, this how it always starts; not that he’d know, he’s never gone through with it because he’s never wanted to and they’ve never liked that answer but that’s the line. Usually it’s coffee, isn’t it, but Chandler already knows that Kent never bothers with coffee at home, it’s a drink he hasn’t got the hang of making himself, and suddenly Chandler doesn’t know how on earth he’s come to learn that. How he’s come to learn that the expression on Kent’s face is one of hope for something he knows is nigh on impossible but that he’s going to hope for anyway. How he’s come to suspect that this was nearing and he didn’t do anything to stop it, didn’t try and veer them onto a different path because he couldn’t force himself to.

Never has he said _tomorrow, I’ll start tomorrow_ to himself so often and not followed through.

‘Sir?’

‘I’m not gay.’ 

He spits it out because Kent’s only asking, because he’s gone stunned and quiet. Chandler knows, he can imagine what his face looks like. He doesn’t need to imagine Kent, because even though he’s trying to keep his gaze fixed firmly on the fuel gage between his fingers he can see the disappointment that flits over Kent’s face. At least, that’s what he thinks it is. He’s not going to test his own resolve by double-checking.

There’s no elegant way of saying it. Not for him, at least.

‘I’m, um, well… I’m not exactly straight either.’

It’s funny, really, that it took Miles months of prodding and a few glasses of scotch to get this out of him, and all Kent had to do was ask if he wanted a cup of tea. But Chandler’s not in a laughing mood, and confusion is settling heavier on Kent’s features. He doesn’t want to look at him, not really, for his own sake but he has to, he _has_ to, because as much as he’d love to not be saying this at all or saying it directly to the steering wheel instead, Kent deserves better. Better than him.

The silence is a question, one he’s not exactly sure how to answer. Kent doesn’t push him but that’s probably just the shock; he hasn’t asked for this but he should know, shouldn’t he? 

‘I’m not interested in a sexual relationship, with…’ He’s said it now, hasn’t he? He can’t just leave it there. ‘…with anyone. I don’t… I’m not wired that way.' 

‘Oh.’ 

It’s only an exclamation, albeit soft and quiet in the night, but all of a sudden Chandler’s floundering and desperate to stop Kent from saying anything else.

'I know—I'm aware that there are workarounds,' Chandler continues, still not sure as to why he's speaking or if he can stop, 'none of which I would be comfortable with.'

Kent’s biting the inside of his cheek; Chandler can’t tell if his expression is lost in thought or entirely lacking in it. It isn’t black, though—Kent’s never managed that. Not that Chandler’s seen. In any case, he can’t stand the thought that he’s hurt him, made him hurt himself. He can’t stand the fact that he’s going to have to live with the memory of having done it. 

‘If the situation was different…’

Chandler trails off. There’s nothing else to say, because he’s being painfully honest and even then he still can’t find the right words. He’s still looking for them in the ensuing silence until he realises that it’s stretching too long and then there’s a sudden sinking feeling that whispers to him, insidious. This wouldn’t be the first thing his paradoxical mind had misread.

‘That’s, um—that’s what you meant, wasn’t it?’

There’s a bit of a silence. An awful bit of silence. Kent just studies him, then the clasp of his own hands in his lap; Chandler suffers that awful sensation of falling. He’s got the wrong end of the stick, hasn’t he? He’s been assuming. Projecting. He can’t even find it within himself to blame Miles, because he didn’t really put him up to this, did he? This is his own stumbling, clumsy misinterpretation. He’s ruined this like he’s ruined everything else.

Kent takes a breath and Chandler turns to him, bracing for the comeuppance, but all Kent does is look him in the eye and say, ‘The invitation still stands.’

He narrows his mouth, shakes his head, tries to ignore the way he’s forgotten how to breathe. ‘I’m sorry.’

For a moment, nothing happens. Chandler doesn’t know what he expects to happen, but it’s something more than Kent nodding and sliding out of the passenger seat and into the cool night. Chandler flinches as the door slams shut under its own weight; he considered staring at the steering wheel until the dashboard lights stretch into one garish blur, but he can’t stop himself from checking if Kent casts a glance backwards.

His eyes follow Kent, but Chandler can’t make him look back. He keeps his gaze resolutely forward, only ducking his head to fish his keys out of a coat pocket and locate the lock in the front door. Kent’s silhouette is so familiar, cast in the hallway light.

Then he shuts the door, and the darkness takes a step forward. 

Chandler feels like he’s just been flapping around like a startled goose. Knows that he has. He probably shouldn’t be allowed to drive but he shifts into gear anyway, checks the road behind him before pulling back out onto the street proper. Somehow he manages to get onto his own usual route home, washing the image of Kent’s building from his rear-view mirror. Even when he’s miles away he somehow expects to still see it. He’s been there once, _once_ ; how the hell has it managed to haunt him already?

He misses his turning twice, and he curses that almost as much as he does himself. 

*

Damn Miles to hell and back. Damn Miles to a trip through hell with Buchan as his Virgil. 

Each time Chandler thinks he’s forgotten how much of an absolute fool he’s made of himself, the feeling comes surging back, the terrible gnawing sensation of intense and inconsolable embarrassment. There’s more than a little regret mixed in there, too. And terror. Chandler hasn’t given himself enough time to identify which is the one leaving the bitter, dry taste in his mouth. Every time the feeling comes prickling back, he throws himself back into the work.

It’s a pity Kent is such a part of his work.

(But thinking that sends a shot of something sudden and uncomfortable through Chandler’s chest. He can’t imagine Whitechapel without Kent. He can’t. It’s only of those things that feels wrong, just like a dripping tap or a page out of place. And, just like those, Chandler doesn’t know what adjustment would make it right. All he knows is that removal isn’t the answer. It wouldn’t—won’t—soothe the uncertainty.)

Chandler keeps his head down and his pen to paper as a new, purposeful set of footsteps approaches his office. He doesn’t particularly want to have much to do with anyone, not while he can’t keep his head straight, but there’s a job to do and for once he’s not the only one doing it.

(But, then again, he never is, is he? That’s why it’s Kent’s face that’s half-hidden by the overflowing box of files. That’s why it’s him, doing as he’s asked.)

Kent pushes open the office door with his hip and nudges it closed with his heel, pushing until it clicks. Chandler tries to ignore the way the sound feels like a slap.

‘The files Ed’s sent up, sir.’ 

Chandler eyes the box, sitting on the chair where Kent had let it fall free of his grip, with distaste. He’d asked for a case or two, not a week’s worth of reading. But this is what happens when Ed’s researching a new subject, apparently; he’s always got his nose in a book (or parchment, or a document, or an ancient disintegrating newspaper that should probably be in a proper archive, with climate control, not their basement) and has a much, much wider net to cast than usual.

Well, at least it’s a convenient excuse not to go with the rest of them to the pub. His excuses have been getting more and more tenuous. Tonight’s would have been positively see-through, and with the way Kent can’t meet his eye it wouldn’t take Miles five minutes to figure out that something’s gone on. So, to reiterate: damn him.

Chandler reaches for the tub of Tiger Balm without looking; he knows where it is, where it always is, and by the time it’s in his line of vision he’s already twisted the lid out of position with his thumb and forefinger.

‘If it helps,’ Kent says, still not quite looking at him properly, ‘I’ve noted the ones that look promising.’

He pauses, fingers still curled around glass, and has another look at the box. Either Ed or Kent’s done away with the lid—probably Ed, it’s one of those things he considers irrelevant if it’s not attached—and there are multicoloured notes slipped in between some of the pages, each with a single word or asterisk. Whether they denote importance or relevance Chandler doesn’t know and doesn’t think to ask; his throat’s closed up with the thought that Kent would still do that for him.

‘The one on top’s the one I’d start with, sir.’

Chandler nods. It’s automatic, he can’t stop himself and it’s almost as if it’s not him doing it. He hasn’t felt himself all day. He hasn’t known what to say all day. Nothing seems… nothing feels like the right thing at the right time.

‘Thank you, Kent.’

(He really does mean it. Not only because he has to say _something_. He really, really does, and not only for that flicker of a familiar smile on Kent’s face.)

Kent nods, mouth tightly shut although, not as far as Chandler can tell, due to distaste. He knows that expression and he’s been trying to see if it’s made an appearance all shift. He’s been half relieved and have bewildered to find that it hasn’t, but he doesn’t have much faith in his judgement these days.

‘Any word on the door-to-door?’

He can make an effort, can’t he? It’ll just be more difficult later if he doesn’t start now. And Chandler wants _later_ , whatever that is. He wants… he doesn’t know what he wants, but whatever it turns out to be he’s confident that it won’t include he and Kent not speaking.

Kent looks back at him with a peculiar expression but Chandler’s not going to wonder about it; not now, anyway, and not anytime soon if he can help it.

‘Not back yet, but from what I’ve heard from Riley, no joy.’ One of his hands migrates to his pocket, presumably to fish around for his phone. ‘Plenty of morbid interest, though.’

What is it about a mention of murder that makes people’s eyes light up? Chandler’s never understood it. Kent’s looking with intent at the door handle in a way that suggests he doesn’t either.

Their polite conversation seems to fizzle out there. Chandler’s hyperaware of the silence, how his heartbeat feels as if it’s echoing through the gaps in his ribcage. He wants to say something—anything—else but no words come to mind. Kent says nothing, his gaze fixed on the leg of one of Chandler’s chairs, as if waiting for a dismissal.

Chandler clears his throat. ‘I’d better get a move on with—‘

‘I’ve been thinking, sir.’ 

Miles’ voice echoes in Chandler’s head: _that’s what we pay you for_.

‘About what you said the other night.’

Chandler has, too, but he’s been trying hard to fight the spectre off. It hasn’t worked, but then again it never does, and judging from the look on Kent’s face that isn’t quite what he means. He’s been thinking about it, yes, but he’s been pondering while Chandler’s been picking it apart looking for where he went wrong.

‘Yes?’

‘You said if the situation had been different.’

‘I…’ He can’t deny it, can he? He said it. (He meant it.) ‘I did.’

‘In what way?’

The way Kent’s messing with his fingers reminds Chandler of the time he’d stood there and told him where to buy Spanish Fly; they’d both had their own reasons for why that was as blush-inducing as it was. This time there’s no blushing—not yet—and Kent’s making a concentrated effort to meet his eye. Or try to, at least, but that might be Chandler’s own avoidance tactic. He’s trying not to think about it.

He’s trying not to think about a lot of things.

‘In, um, well…’ Words fall out of Chandler’s mouth because he can’t stand the silence, not because he’s really in any state to be giving an answer, but he pulls himself together anyway. ‘In a lot of ways.’

What he means is _if I was different_ because that’s the main problem, isn’t it? It should be the fact that they work together, that they’re both policemen on the same CID team, but what was it that Norroy had said? It’s no wonder coppers go for coppers? Funny, that, really; she thought they were alike. Perhaps they were, but he’s never been as cut-throat as she was. If he was he’d be able to send Kent back to his desk now without an explanation, just excise the problem and leave it at that, but he can’t.

He owes him so much more than an explanation, he knows, but it’s as good a place as any to start atonement. 

‘For starters, the job.’ It’s the easy answer. ‘I’m your superior officer, Kent, it was wrong of me to even mention…’

‘It’s fine, sir. It doesn’t bother—’

‘There are rules for a reason, Kent.’

( _And I’m one of them._ )

‘I am in a position of power. I cannot—it is not up to me how I act. Even if—‘

Chandler tries to ignore the way Kent takes a sharp breath at the insinuation. _Even if I’d like to_. Or however he was planning on ending that sentence. If he’s honest he’d been so desperate to explain, to have this conversation over and done with, he hadn’t thought that far ahead.

He can’t finish the thought. He can’t do it justice. 

‘If I wasn’t so set in my ways,’ he says instead, his tone as quiet and tired as the rest of him feels.

They both know what he’s talking about.

What he really can’t see is him making Kent happy. He’s done enough already, he’s _ruined_ enough already. It doesn’t matter, though; that doesn’t make this better. It’s not noble, is it? It’s not easier. But it is better. It’s better for the both of them this way. They can recover from this, probably. They can put it down to a misunderstanding, a slip of the tongue and something they might—just _might_ —be able to laugh about in five years’ time. If they know each other in five years. For some reason Chandler still hopes they will, still feels the same scrunch of dread and disappointment when he thinks about it.

He shuts his eyes and rubs circles into his temples, but the familiar motion isn’t as calming as it usually is.

‘It doesn’t rule you out, sir.’ There’s a dense pause, then: ‘It needn’t exclude you.’

Chandler can’t stand the careful tone Kent’s adopted, the half-masked hope and fear. It sounds like how his stomach feels.

‘I’m not talking about this at the moment, Kent.’

‘You needn’t assume—’

‘Kent, please.’

The resistance in the room dies away. Not entirely, because Kent’s hand is still tense by his side and he looks as if he’s forcing himself to not to  say anything else, and he’s certainly not finished. _They_ are, though, for now. Chandler should have known this would take more than one conversation to explain. Knowing his luck, it will take a handful, each more painful than the last. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, watching the corner of the box instead of Kent’s determined face, the way the cracks at the edges reveal more than he probably wants Chandler to know.

Chandler doesn’t think he deserves to know.

‘I’m with you regardless, sir,’ Kent says, resting one hand on the office door as he pulls it open, poised to leave. ‘I thought I’d already proved that.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: 14 July 2014.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your continued support! <3


	4. Chapter 4

‘Sir?’

Chandler hums, looking between the photographs they’ve pinned to the board instead of at Kent. He’s done this each night since the first, since he and Kent took another look at the scene. (He’s still trying to convince himself that what happened after doesn’t matter.) They haven’t got much further since then, either, but Miles had popped his head in before he’d left for the evening and said that the head nurse thought they might be able to have a brief, quiet word with her patient in the morning. Which is progress, at the very least. 

‘I wondered if I might speak to you about something,’ Kent continues, his voice tempered with forced calm.

He's not emotionally tone deaf; he can hear each change, variations in pitch, in intonation, when something's wrong. He's just got no bloody idea what to do with the information. The Kent who’s delivering information related to one of their cases is not the same Kent who’s angling to approach a sensitive subject. They coincide, occasionally, when the situation warrants it, but that can’t be the case when it’s just the two of them and their shadows left in the incident room.

He realises, now, that he probably shouldn’t have let that happen.

‘Something…’ Kent continues, and Chandler can see him worrying his fingers out of the corner of his eye. ‘Something unrelated to the case.’

‘I gathered that much, Kent,’ he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Chandler still doesn’t shift his gaze away from the notes they’ve made, the photographs, the copies of pertinent information. They’ve left a space for the tox screen and doctor’s reports; Chandler had hoped that they’d be filled by now. The negative space haunts him wherever he looks. Now he’s mind’s just wrapped up in contingency rhetoric and he can’t keep the words straight. 

Kent’s face has terrible hope in it. Squashed, half-hidden by fear, but it’s there. Chandler hates the part of himself that wants to draw it out, wants to watch it hover behind Kent’s features, wants to justify and realise it. Maybe that why he doesn’t tell him to go home. He doesn’t want to hurt him but he has to. He shouldn’t draw it out, he shouldn’t be letting Kent draw it out, but for the life of him Chandler can’t think of any words to say.

‘I don’t think,’ Kent begins, cautious but still somehow overriding Chandler’s ability to string sentences together, ‘it’s technically against protocol.’

Chandler can’t help but ask. ‘What is?’

‘This. Us.’ He doesn’t quite gesture between them but one hand twitches in a way that suggests he’d like to. ‘Whatever that could be.’

Nothing. That’s what that could be. The thought sends something hollow through Chandler that he thinks is disappointment, which he’s certainly not familiar with, but this time it’s different. It’s closer, somehow. Which is a bit of a shock, because he hasn’t thought that could get any closer than it already has. He’s an approximation of a failure of a policeman, isn’t he? With no success in any case worth its salt, no arrests, no convictions. Disappointment is his closest friend, and somehow even that’s hidden this from him. Hidden the fact that it can go deeper. (That it already has.) 

‘What?’ Chandler’s own voice takes him by surprise. He hadn’t really meant to speak yet.

Kent looks astounded that he’s asked. That he’s engaged with the statement at all. Chandler’s a little amazed himself, but that’s turning into a permanent thing and he can’t quite remember what it’s like to meet a declaration like that with pragmatism. Then again, he probably never has.

‘Oh, um…’ Kent trips over his silences almost as he does his words.

Chandler turns away from him, gives him the space (or is he taking it for himself?) and tampers with the alignment of the photos. They don’t need it, but he has to something with his hands.

‘As far as I can tell…’ Kent swallows, bracing himself. ‘Head Desk only frowns on sexual relationships between officers.’

‘I’m not sure they’re too keen on romantic ones, either.’

Chandler’s statement is met with silence. He can barely believe he’s said it, actually, because he only thought it and apparently he’s got no filter between his brain and his mouth anymore—or if he has it’s got some massive holes in it—and he should probably just not speak again for the rest of the evening. Which is advice Kent’s apparently taken on his behalf. Chandler doesn’t know whether or not that’s a good thing.

(It probably is.)

For what feels like an hour—but probably is more akin to a minute—the only sounds they share are the distant rhythm of movement from the station reception. The implied momentum makes Chandler feel terribly, terribly still; the suppressed fidgeting out of the corner of his eye doesn’t do much to help matters either. He feels responsible. For everything. Absolutely bloody _everything_.

Kent opens his mouth, as if to say something, and Chandler braces himself. Except he doesn’t have to, because Kent shuts his mouth with a slight frown and, after standing tremendously still, he suddenly turns with only a slight hesitation to collect his coat from his chair and walk out. Chandler doesn’t watch him go, only he sort of does, testing his peripheral vision to its limit. He’s seen that look of baffled confusion before. Kent’s kept it reined in quite well. Chandler doesn’t blame him for needing to think it through—it took him the best part of a decade, after all. 

Too many people conflate desire with lust. They do not always go hand in hand. He knows that; he recognises it now, with Kent. He has to stop himself from thinking about it, because otherwise he won’t be able to get it out of his head. He’s a doomed romantic, he always has been, he always will be. Chandler made his peace with that years ago. He may want—he wants the gentle humour between them back, he wants to offer confidence and comfort with a soft touch, he wants comfortable tenderness—but he can’t have. It wouldn’t be fair when Kent’s accustomed to expecting more. Needs more. Deserves some _one_ more.

But, then again… it might just be another example of Chandler’s mind running away with him, but as he rearranges the pictures and the documents and rubs away and rewrites the section titles, a thought occurs to him. In the brief glance he’d allowed himself, the fleeting look, Kent had looked—well, as if he hadn’t thought of there being the opportunity for a romantic situation between them. So what was he offering in the first place?

Something, evidently. _Something_.

That’s… well, that’s new.

Chandler stares at the photos of the injury site until the feeling wanes.

(As much as he tries, it never quite goes.)

*

They may as well declare a departmental crisis when Miles barges into Chandler’s office one evening after the shift and plonks down a bottle of his preferred vodka.

Chandler looks up from what he’s writing, stares at the bottle for a moment, then shifts his gaze to Miles’ stern expression.

‘So you’re not self-medicating on shit.’ 

Miles spells out his explanation as if it’s an inevitability, as if that’s what Chandler’s already started doing. He’s not, he really hasn’t, but Miles must have developed an uncanny ability to read minds since the last time they spoke. The bottle’s an exact replica of the one that’s in the lowest desk drawer to Chandler’s right, save for the fact that one’s half empty. It’d be a close relative of perjury if he was to deny he’d thought about getting it out once or twice today.

Chandler gives a short sigh and turns back to the paperwork. ‘That’s not likely to happen.’ 

‘How was I to know you weren’t in such a state that you didn’t know what you were buying and just went for the first thing that said eighty proof?’ Miles waits until Chandler looks up at him again, if only because the silence has stretched too thin. ‘I only ask because that’s what your face is like.’

Is it? Maybe that’s why it feels like Kent is chancing more looks at him. Or maybe it’s just harder for him to miss them now he might actually not mind them. Might actually want them. What he misses more than anything is the fact that it was unspoken, once, and there was something comfortable in that. They could both hope—Chandler assumes that’s what they both did—and that made them happier that whatever this is. This _negotiation_.

Chandler puts down his pen. ‘You know, then.’

‘Of course I bloody do! What do you think I am, blind?’

Sometimes Chandler wonders if that might be easier. Sometimes he doesn’t want to uncover new truths about himself, after all, and Miles doesn’t seem to understand the distinction between _have to know_ and _could probably do without knowing_. He’d been perfectly happy when he’d been vaguely aware that Kent was fond of him, that he tried his best; he might even have been all right if it had all been a misunderstanding and all the feeling had been on his part. That’d just be embarrassment and he’s a lifetime of managing that. The real problem now is that they’re both arguing the same thing from different directions: Chandler’s executing damage control before anything happens and Kent’s intent on doing damage. Chandler can’t tell if he’s more concerned it’d be damage to him or damage to himself.

‘Stop that.’

‘What?’

‘You’re doing the face again. That ever so slightly disgusted face.’ Miles pauses and attempts what Chandler assumes is a mimicry, but it looks too extreme for anything his face would do. His own blank look must be answer enough, because Miles tuts and shakes his head and all in all looks as if he’s decided Chandler’s an absolute moron. ‘I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.’

Chandler knows his retroactively installed boundaries aren’t holding very well. He keeps doubling back on himself, he doesn’t quite know where he’s put up the fences. He has honestly been trying to do his best but, as usual, it isn’t enough. His mind’s never been exactly faithful to his body.

Miles ignores his silence. ‘You probably don’t want to know that Mansell’s just taken him out to drown his sorrows.’

He can’t say anything to that. He’s not supposed to mind. He shouldn’t mind.

He does mind.

‘Don’t worry too much, I think Riley’s gone with them, but even she thinks he needs some drinks down him.’

The information hangs in the air between them. Chandler doesn’t say anything, though in a way he does. He knows he’s an open book, really, if anyone’s trying to read him. Miles won’t have missed the involuntary shadow of a wince.

‘The Mucky Duck, if you’re wondering.’

Chandler snaps, ‘I’m not,’ too quickly. He doesn’t want to think about how long it would take him to get to the Black Swan, to give it its proper name, or whether or not Kent would be glad to be rescued from those two’s clutches. But he’s an adult, he can get drunk over him if he wants, and although there’s a pang in Chandler’s chest he can’t do anything about it.

‘My god, were you always this difficult?’

Chandler bites back a half-bitter laugh. ‘Probably.’

‘I’ve no idea what he sees in you.’

It’s an exaggeration, Chandler knows, but he still mutters, ‘Neither do I.’

There’s a moment where it seems as if Miles is looking for the closest thing to whack him around the head with, but no blow comes. Chandler’s very particular about keeping newspapers out of his office unless strictly necessary, and those seem to be everyone’s weapon of choice. Instead Miles yanks at one of the chairs Chandler keeps on the visitor’s side of his desk and parks himself in it; it’s then that Chandler sighs, defeated, and twists the cap back on his pen. Miles isn’t going to be moved and the last thing he can control is stopping the ink from drying out.

‘He’s quite adept at being young and miserable.’ Miles pauses, waits until he’s got Chandler’s full attention. ‘He’s had a lot of practice.’

‘Don’t try and guilt me into anything, Miles.’

‘I’m not. You’ll do that to yourself.’ He says it in such an offhand manner that it might be a joke, though Chandler knows from the stab of embarrassment that it’s not. ‘Though I suppose a bit of all that gloom and doom’s on your behalf, and I can’t blame him for that.’

Chandler does. He knows he feels sorry for himself more than he should, although he suspects it’s for different reasons. Though perhaps blame is a strong word; bewilderment is probably the more accurate reaction. He can’t imagine why Kent would bother himself with feeling that way. It’s asking for pain when he’s already got enough. Chandler frowns as he lines up the pile of papers in front of him, makes sure the edges are even.

Miles watches him but doesn’t try to put a stop to it. ‘You should listen to him, you know.’

His hands flinch back from the soft white of the pages, the thin lines of typeface. His gaze snaps from the fields he’s left blank to Miles’ calm demeanour, the way he’s sat back in his chair and crossed his arms in front of his chest like this is a conversation they have every day. Which, apparently, they do. 

‘I—’ he tries, but there are no words. There never seem to be, either. ‘It’s not—’

‘Don’t panic, I don’t know what he’s saying to you. But I know he can craft a good argument and this one must be dead easy for him.’

Miles is right. Kent’s built a career on answering questions and making cases, like they all have. Perhaps not as much as the barristers, but they do. Even Mansell’s quite good at it, when he makes the effort to knuckle down. There’s no way Chandler can say that Kent’s not capable. He’s more than capable—almost as capable as Chandler is at deluding himself.

It’s as if they’re having the same conversation in parts, split day by day or week by week. It’s wearing, because they’re only really half-arguing. They’re beating around the same bush, equal parts restraint. Once or twice, when Chandler’s been on the verge of sleep and Kent’s said something to him in the last minutes of the shift, or laid a ‘Good night, sir,’ at the threshold of his office with _that_ face of his on, he’s wondered if perhaps he should just give in. It isn’t as if he doesn’t want to, because he does, although at the same time he doesn’t. Then in the next minute he remembers one of the myriad ways it could all go wrong, the way the fallout would be absolutely everywhere and he couldn’t clear it away, and it’s all underlined by the fact that it’s inevitable. No matter what Kent thinks.

In an odd way, it’s because Chandler likes him so much that he isn’t willing to try.

‘And if he agrees with me,’ Miles continues, with a shrug and a half-smile, ‘then he’s probably right.’

‘Oh, well,’ Chandler says, the sarcasm almost dripping onto the papers he turns back to mid sentence, ‘in _that_ case—’ 

‘I didn’t tell you to think about it just to wind you up.’ Miles fixes him with a look that silences the one Chandler had tried to craft, one that expresses masses of disbelief. ‘I told you to think about it because you should think about it.’

‘I have been.’

‘No, you haven’t. You’ve been coming up with excuses.’

Chandler prefers to think of them as reasons. Because that’s what they are—reasons—and they’re perfectly reasonable. He’s perfectly reasonable. It’s Miles that’s lost it, pushing them together like this, trying to orchestrate something that shouldn’t even be an option. It’s not, strictly speaking, but some switch in Chandler’s head’s been flicked and he can’t help but think about it. He’s never been very good at switching off, has he? He’s just always been able to redirect it. This… well, this. It’s already a mess. It can’t be put to bed at night.

No matter what Miles might think.

‘I might just resort to smacking your heads together the next time you stand close enough.’

Chandler sighs, a little melancholy. ’That’s unlikely to be any time soon.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Miles says, smothering a smile as he gets to his feet. ‘He’s tenacious, if nothing else. And to be honest, if he hasn’t dissuaded himself by now, I doubt you can do anything about it.’ 

Out of everything, it’s that bit that worries Chandler the most, because Miles is right. He hates to make the metaphor, it feels belittling, but if Miles is a bulldog then Kent’s a terrier. Stubborn, scrappy, and once he’s decided to chase, he’ll chase. He can dig if he thinks it’s worthwhile.

Chandler doesn’t know what the hell he is. A cat, probably. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. There’s not much else left for him to do.

Miles chuckles. ‘You haven’t got as much of a problem as you think you have.’

‘Haven’t I?’ 

‘Well, in the grand scheme of things… it’s certainly not the worst thing that could happen.’ Miles smiles and Chandler supposes it’s intended to be encouraging. ‘See you in the morning, boss. I know it’s a big ask, but try to get at least some sleep.’

Chandler knows he won’t, not really, nothing that you could call peaceful, but he nods anyway. Miles does too, only in an odd sort of agreement, because it ends their conversation even if Chandler feels like they haven’t come any closer to a conclusion at all. He certainly feels in more of a muddle than he had before. Everything would just be so much easier if Miles agreed with him, if Miles thought he was barking mad for even thinking about it.

Then again—Miles has years of experience on him, and as much as they bicker Chandler knows that on some things he should defer. He has a sergeant for a reason. Perhaps this wasn’t what the Commander had meant, back at the height of the Ripper case, but Chandler gathers his words as best he can. He can’t manage many, but that doesn’t seem to have bothered them that much in the past.

‘But what if it doesn’t work?’

He blurts it out just as Miles reaches for the door; he hates himself for doing it as soon as the words reach his own ears. There’s a certain suggestion of inevitability, of a decision not yet made there that he’s not comfortable with. Miles’ll take it as a victory and they can’t have that, not yet. Not _yet_.

Miles stills and just looks at him. ‘But what if it does?’

Chandler almost stops breathing. He doesn’t know why, because there’s really no reason for his respiratory system to fail, _but what if it does_?

This time Miles doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t jest or jab. He doesn’t even look as if this is what he’s expected all along. He just meets Chandler’s inarticulate gaze and nods. It’s almost paternal.

‘That’s the question you should be asking, boss.’

*

When there’s a knock on his office door a couple of evenings later, Chandler is ready to snap at Miles and tell him to give it a rest for once, let him at least _attempt_ to have a night of peace, no matter how impossible that clearly is. The fact that it’s Kent face that he finds hovering politely at the doorframe surprises him so much that the words are strangled before they make it to his tongue. Though why he’s that surprised escapes him. This isn’t the first time, is it?

And no matter how deferential Kent’s expression is, Chandler knows it’s not the last, either.

Chandler clears his throat, shifts the abandoned words, and turns back to the file in front of him. ‘How can I help you, Kent?’ 

It’s meant as a distancing statement, as an overly formal opening question that should keep them at arm’s length from one another, but Kent steps a little further into the room. Chandler swallows—one of those conversations, then. Of course. He’s not entirely sure he’s got the energy for it, not with the end of this case coming up, not with the solicitors breathing down their necks every time they conduct an interview.

‘You, um.’ Kent glances away and back again. He looks like he’s borrowed his confidence from someone else. ‘You made a distinction, the other day.’ 

Chandler immediately knows what he’s referring to; it’s been paining him for days. Every time he makes a distraction, makes an implication, he can’t help but wonder if and when anyone will notice. Kent in particular. He’d always had an eye for detail.

He clears his throat, studying the way the grain of his desk ruins the neat line of his things. ‘We all made a lot of distinctions.’

‘Ah, yes, I suppose so.’ Kent shifts his weight as if he’s considering stepping closer, perhaps even taking a seat, but he doesn’t. He wrings his hands instead. ‘What I mean is—well, a dichotomy, of sorts. One that, um—one that I hadn’t considered, before.’

There’s no point in trying to make it seem like Chandler doesn’t know what Kent means. It’s clear from the way he’s inflecting his words, the way he’s waited until everyone else has packed up their desks to deliver some relatively innocuous information, the way he’s trying to hold Chandler’s gaze and lose it at the same time. The way he swallows and tightens his jaw; that’s self-reproach, Chandler recognises it. He wants to keep it from getting to Kent’s brain like it’s got to his, to smooth out the muscle and bone with his thumb until—but it doesn’t matter. He can’t.

Instead, Chandler heaves out another breath and tries to ignore the way his back’s threatening to go. 

‘I, well. I did some thinking.’ Kent forces himself to let his hands drop, tries to make himself seem a little more relaxed with one tucked into a trouser pocket and a shrug. ‘And some reading. Quite a lot of reading, actually.' 

‘Enlightening, was it?’

Maybe if he’s sharp enough, clipped enough, his manner will do what his words can’t.

‘You could say that.’ Kent’s surprisingly unfazed by his tone; he counters with something more jovial (though still careful) than Chandler had expected. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

Chandler can’t help it. He was bred to ask questions, after all. ‘In a manner of speaking?’ 

Kent swallows heavily. ‘I found it to be more akin to reinforcement.’

Chandler knows better than to hope that Kent actually means whatever he’s read has driven home the fact that he shouldn’t want to get himself involved in Chandler’s wriggling mess of emotions. He doesn’t want to think that—in fact, the words tempt Chandler’s heart to the top of his throat, make him choke on the implied possibility—but he has to hope, doesn’t he? He can’t say anything, Kent’s made up his own mind, Miles is useless. A bit of late night reading is the last interception, the last chance for a change of heart. They know it’s possible—writing has lead people to kill, after all. It might make a man want to save himself, too.

Neither of them speak; neither of them can bring themselves to. It’s only when Chandler reaches for his pot of Tiger Balm, accidentally catching Kent’s eye on the way in a manner that feels far too intimate for the office, that Kent turns and scans the incident room. Double-checking that they haven’t been interrupted by absent-minded officers who’ve forgotten their coats or their phones or their wallets.

Chandler’s almost painfully aware that there’s no one there, and he can’t make himself feel any differently. Menthol and clove don’t crowd out Kent’s presence.

‘It doesn’t bother me. It wouldn’t bother me.’

Chandler’s gaze snaps up to meet Kent’s shy look, the strangely comforting certainty in his eyes. He can’t believe that it’s true, that it could be true, but Kent twists his fingers in front of him again and Chandler knows Kent believes it himself. He’s not sure where belief and the truth intersect anymore.

‘What?’ Chandler manages, drawing his fingers away from his temples.

‘You.’ Kent says it with such tenderness. ‘Your being…’

He trails off. Something in the adjoining room shifts, probably an air bubble in the water dispenser just outside the almost-closed door. Chandler almost smiles; none of them really know the word, do they? He doesn’t really know what he is, who he is, and in an odd way he’s grateful to Kent for not filling in a word. For not taking away the element of ambiguity. Chandler may value the fact that everything has its place, has its reason and has its role, but he’s lived without an easy reference for that part of him for so long that it would be odd to pencil one in now.

Kent huffs; Chandler looks up again to find frustration lining Kent’s mouth. He removes a hand from a pocket to push his fingers across his forehead.

‘It’s, um…’ he says, tracing his lips with his fingers for a brief moment. ‘It’s difficult to know how to say this.’

Chandler knows. Oh, how Chandler knows.

Kent bits down so hard on his bottom lip that the flesh pales, then: ‘You didn’t misunderstand.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Chandler finds himself frowning and apprehensive.

‘That night. You didn’t misunderstand.’

At the words his chest goes terribly, horribly still again. Dread mingles with vindication, validation; he can’t look at Kent even though he knows he’s willing him to. Or, well, willing him to do something other than mess with the paraphernalia on his desk, trying in vain to decide which of the myriad of pieces is the one out of line this time. But that is, of course, what Chandler does, and he curses himself for it. He wants to look Kent in the eye, he does, he _really_ does, but he just—

Chandler forces himself to. Kent does the same, it seems, and he swallows to steady his voice. 

‘The offer still stands.’

He feels a bit unwell. ‘Kent, I think it would be best if—’

‘I can’t believe I’m having to say this to you,’ Kent cuts in, seizing on the words, ‘but there’s more to relationships than sex.’

Chandler’s vaguely tempted to tell him to get out of his office this instant, but he doesn’t. He’s not a schoolmarm.

Kent continues. ‘I am aware of that, you know.’ He falters a bit with the next breath, as if the words are getting harder and harder to string together. ‘You wouldn’t have to teach me.’

The metaphor somehow survives and Kent hadn’t even meant to keep it going. Doesn’t that say something about him, them, whatever terms they’re using now? It might, and Chandler doesn’t like how that tastes.

‘I assure you,’ Chandler begins, staring resolutely at the polished surface of his desk because Kent’s face is too much to look at when he’s trying to stick to his decisions. ‘I’m saving you the trouble.’

‘What?’

‘I’m not…’

The word that comes to mind is ‘suitable’, but that’s cruel and it’s not really up to him to decide who is and who isn’t suitable for Kent. He toys with the idea of saying ‘worth it,’ because he’s really not, there’s too much to wade through for any sort of reward he’d be able to give back. He can’t imagine anyone wanting to sit through it, especially not someone like Kent. He could have anyone, and he’s somehow set his heart on someone who’s a mess.

‘I wouldn’t work.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do, Kent. Don’t try to convince me otherwise.’

Kent actually looks hurt, for some reason; Chandler can’t fathom why. He’d phrased it exactly so it’s clear that it’s him, it’s not _him_. That he isn’t finding fault in Kent, that it’s not something he’s done or hasn’t done or can’t do. It’s everything that Chandler’s done and hasn’t done and can’t do. He’d have thought that was obvious, and not a reason for offence.

The fact they’re having this conversation at all and Chandler’s not let it shut him down half as much as he normally would is a testament to how much he thinks of Kent. He could have just said that he wouldn’t dignify the question with an answer when this had first started, this tiptoeing, but no. He’s engaged. He’s let Kent talk to him. He’s let Kent look at him like he’s looking at him now, with an open gaze and a soft edge and none of the apprehension that should be there. Chandler could even understand—welcome—anger if it was present in any significant way. Maybe it is. He’s not really looking. He’s aware, but he’s not really looking.

‘Is it really so difficult to believe that someone might love you?’ he says, with a quiet simmer to the words.

Chandler looks back to his desk, the straight lines and crisp bevelled corners. ‘I’ve never come across someone who I thought could.’

‘Yes, you have.’

It slips out almost like an apology, or a reprimand, or something in between. Chandler almost doesn’t register the meaning before Kent’s had a chance to slide his hand away from the edge of his office door and walk away, his steps echoing sharp and concise through the thick stillness. Chandler can’t, and doesn’t, watch him go—he can’t, not when he’s about this close to mouthing Kent’s words another couple of times to see if he can muddle any other sort of meaning out of them—but there’s a murmur of hesitation that suggests Kent might have looked back at him.

Chandler doesn’t trust himself to check. 

*

It gets to the point that when his phone goes, beeping and vibrating against the granite counter where he’s left it charging, Chandler just turns and looks at it for a moment. He’d come home only to find that his empty flat did its best to intensify the echoing of Kent’s parting words in his head and he would have been grateful for any interruption—save that one. He has to consider whether or not he wants to check the screen and see who it is who’s trying to contact him; it’s a text, since it’s not kept on wailing for very long, so that narrows down the field considerably. It doesn’t make him much more confident, because the most likely candidate is the person he’s least likely to be able to have a conversation with.

It’s times like this when he really wishes he’d never updated his phone. At least that way there’d be no function that would let Kent know if he read the message and then didn’t reply. That's the sort of mood he's in.

Or, at least, he’s pretty sure. He’s been dubious about the state of his emotions for a while at this point.

The mobile rings again, after the usual interval. It’s not another message, just another reminder, and with a half-anguished sigh Chandler wills himself back through the kitchen and flips his phone so it’s facing upwards. And of course it’s Kent’s name that greets him, in black and white, as if it’s nothing extraordinary at all.  

_I’ve been thinking again._

Chandler doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s a conversation opener, certainly, but there should be a joviality there for it to work. There’s not, there’s just an open-ended sentiment that Chandler doesn’t know how to finish. Something rises in his throat as the phone tells him Kent’s typing; it’s an odd mixture of relief and dread and it tastes uncannily like bile. It's barely receded before more text appears and the phone vibrates in Chandler's hand. It's almost as if it’s shaking his bones.

_Your concern… it’s on your end._

He frowns. Of course it is. There's no other way to be concerned about this. He’s the one with the problem, isn’t he? The one who’s awkward. The one who knows what he’s like, what he’d end up like if they were in a position to try whatever it is they could try. He’d ruin it for Kent, not the other way around.

_Your point being?_

Spelled out in pixels and letters, the sentiment seems harsher than Chandler probably means it to be. But they serve their purpose, because they shouldn’t be talking about this anymore, should they? If Chandler can put a stop to it with a curt sentence he will, because he’d much rather do that than have to pull rank. As difficult as this all is, as uncomfortable as each exchange ends up, Chandler would still like to be able to call Kent his friend. Still like to be able to look him in the eye. To work with him.

He certainly doesn’t want to see his name on a transfer request.

This time the indicator says that Kent stops and starts typing several times. After the third, Chandler can’t watch anymore and he leaves his phone screen-down on the kitchen counter. He tries to walk away but the echoing, answering beep pulls him back. He really shouldn’t be doing this, he knows, but it feels like they’ve had a hundred of these conversations and maybe one more can’t hurt.

(Except of course it can.)

_Are you interested? At all?_

Panic stabs between Chandler’s ribs, because he’s always known Kent to be a good detective. He, like the rest of them, see things. Sees things that others miss. Chandler shouldn’t have hoped that he wouldn’t be able to notice that each time they clash, each time Kent tries to talk to him and he shies away, it isn’t just disengagement that holds him back. It isn’t just awkwardness that makes exchanging words difficult. It’s making sure that Kent doesn’t say just the right thing at just the right time.

Chandler knows he could do it. He could. He’s been getting close.

He doesn’t need to tell him for him to know now, does he?

_Trust your instinct._

Chandler feels a little sick as he presses send and the phone makes the innocuous whooshing sound that tells him he’s really done it now. He’s shown his hand. Though, judging by how much Miles has been pushing him and how many times Kent has mustered up the courage to approach him, he probably did that a long time ago. But he’s chosen to, this time, hasn’t he? He hasn’t just let it happen. 

Either way, he refuses to stand over the device waiting for an answer. He is not, and never has been, a teenage girl.

(He’s not going to think about how stereotypical it is for his stomach to lurch when he hears the alert, distantly, through drywall, as he’s digging a fresh tub of Tiger Balm from a bathroom drawer.)

When he does check the message, his heart entirely _not_ thumping against the confines of his chest, it takes him a moment to understand what it means.

_Drink?_

It should feel like a derailment, like an awkward change of subject. It should feel forcibly jovial. But isn’t, and it doesn’t, and Chandler knows what Kent means, can picture his face and hear the tone of his voice. He has to pause, has to make himself stop and think, but if he's being honest with himself then the answer to Kent’s question—the only question worth asking—springs to mind straightaway.

_All right._  

*

Chandler spots Kent before the younger man notices he’s arrived. He’s sat at a corner table in the pub they all usually go to, fingers swiping at the condensation on his glass before it can drop onto the wooden table. He looks… Chandler doesn’t know how he looks, and the thought unsettles him. He’d have guessed nervous, or anxious, but at that moment Kent glances up towards the door and finds him stood there. His face lights up, then he smothers an apprehensive swallow.

It’s not a face he likes finding on Emerson—Kent, _Kent_. Kent.

That’s a road that leads somewhere else and he hasn’t got a map for it yet. He knows his way to the bar, though, and around a round of drinks. Kent doesn't so much as glance at him when he returns, sitting down and sliding his pint into line beside the half-finished one. He doesn't especially want it, not really, but it's something to do with his hands. Something to look at when they can’t look at each other, because that’s an inevitability. It’s already happening.

Kent clears his throat and glances around at the surrounding tables. ‘I almost thought you weren’t going to come.’

‘I’m not that much of a bastard.’ Chandler knows he’s been being a bit of one; he’s been telling himself that it’s for Kent’s own good, in the long run, but the look on his face suggests otherwise. ‘I’d have told you.’

Kent half-laughs, but there’s no humour in him. ‘That’s not exactly a comforting thought.’

Chandler knows it’s not. He’s just admitted that he’s had second thoughts. But can Kent blame him? Surely they both know this is out of kilter. They shouldn’t be doing this. But they are, and what does that say about them? About the situation? About how much and what Chandler feels? He’d love to know if Kent has any answers, because he sure as hell doesn’t, and he tends to try to avoid that outside of his work whenever possible.

‘What is it you’ve been thinking about this time?’ he asks, taking note of the lingering tension in Kent’s jaw.

Kent’s eyes flicker towards him, as if he was planning on only a brief look, but the diffident gaze sticks. ‘Is is that obvious?’

‘Not particularly.’ Chandler shrugs to cover the lie. ‘I was basing that on our previous conversation.’

‘Which one?’

‘Any of them.’

‘They’ve all been the same,’ Kent mutters into his beer.

Chandler’s suddenly very conscious that he’s hardly touched his own drink. He’s tempted to try and catch up, regardless of how long that might take, because maybe then he’ll relax a little, sit a little less straight-backed, choose words that are more suited to his meaning. But he doesn’t want to have to be picking them both up off the floor, either, and he’s not sure he’s ready for what Kent might tell him if they start racing through pints.

God, wouldn’t Miles have a good laugh at them now.

Kent takes a long swallow of beer, then asks: ‘Was I right, then?’

‘About what?’

(He knows exactly what.) 

‘About you being interested.’

The longer Chandler lets the pause stretch, the more red-faced he feels himself go. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

‘A straight answer every now and then wouldn’t go amiss.’

There’s an angry note in Kent’s voice which is rare; Chandler’s only ever heard slivers of it, directed at other people, at their adversaries. It makes him sit up straighter because for the first time he actually realises Kent’s serious. He’s known, objectively, of course; it’s just that sharpness to him, the glint of the razor blade where there’s usually softness, that betrays how far they’ve let this go. How far _he’s_ let this go.

Kent’s more than frustrated, now. More than a little miffed that everything hasn’t gone as he’d wanted. Except he’s never been that petty. Chandler’s known he’s been blunt, he’s been obtuse, he’s been brusque and he’s been nebulous, but he hasn’t thought he’s been hurting Kent. Or he has, he’s known that it must, but the way Kent’s looking at him and the way his words sink in make him is chilling. 

He can’t tell if it’s all been for his own good anymore.

Chandler sighs, folding his hands in his lap. ‘I shouldn’t be.’

‘That’s no better.’

‘I know.’

‘You know,’ Kent continues, his voice softer now, wary and almost vulnerable. ‘I think I’ve made my position quite clear.’ 

He has. Chandler _knows_ , now, and in the nights he hasn’t been able to sleep his brain’s run away with him, dragged him through the things he’s ignored the first time around. The glances, the half-smiles, _everything_. Miles hadn’t been kidding, because once you notice one thing you see them all, and the dangerous thing is when Chandler had realised he’d started returning them, started seeking them out. He hadn’t even realised. He hadn’t even tried. He’d just done it, he hadn’t always noticed, and even when he had he hadn’t wanted to stop.

He can’t say it. He still can’t, maybe he never could and never will, but he nods. The affirmative is the truth, isn’t it? 

Chandler thinks he can almost see Kent’s heart leap into his throat. ‘Yeah?’

Another nod. His beer’s never looked so interesting. Chandler can feel the heat rising on the back of his neck, prickling around his collar, and it scalds when Kent bumps his knee against his.

He doesn’t really know what to do with that.

‘Then, why…’ Kent trails off, draws the warmth of his leg away. ‘Why—all this?’

‘I just… I don’t see it working.’ Chandler forces himself to look at Kent. He deserves that much. More, actually, but it’s as much as he can give him now. ‘I wish I could.’ 

Maybe if he keeps referring to this idea as _it_ instead of _us_ he can hold out.

Kent fixes him with a carefully crafted look. ‘Did you ever see yourself as a DI stationed at Whitechapel for near on five years?’ 

Chandler can’t argue that. Out of all of them, apart from Miles, Kent’s the only one who’s known him since the beginning. He remembers him before everything happened. Before everything changed. ‘I can’t say I did.’

‘Sorry to be so grim about it,’ Kent says, his mouth curling for a moment into a small, sorrowful smile, ‘but the point remains. Sometimes what you see happening doesn’t turn out that way.’

‘I could say the same for you.’

‘I’m…’ Kent shrugs, picking up his glass and rotating the beermat underneath until it’s parallel with the table edge. ‘…well acquainted with the element of risk.’

It’s a loaded statement and Chandler wants to unpack it. He watches Kent roll a sip around on his tongue for a moment, then swallow. The statement’s true to all policemen, really, even special constables. None of them stumbled into the Met and somehow got handed a uniform. But there’s something about the way Kent says it, the way the words linger on his tongue with the beer, that says that’s not entirely what he means. There’s something else. It pains Chandler that he doesn’t know. Can’t know.

‘I—’

‘You keep finding problems where there are none,’ Kent interrupts, saving Chandler from finding the rest of his sentence. ‘You make decisions that aren’t yours to make.’

He has to, though. It’s his job. He _has_ to, even with this. Even about him. He’s got to make the decisions that’s best for them, best for all of them, and he knows that he’s managing people and not just names on paper and that means that he’s got to look them in the eye but somehow that’s so much more difficult with Kent. Chandler sighs and watches Kent’s jaw as he turns to look at nothing in particular on the other side of the room. He hadn’t expected this to hurt. He should have, because it always does, no matter what he ends up doing, but he wants to wrap his fingers around Kent’s wrist to stop him picking at his cuticles and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t actually almost do it.

He’s jammed in so many thoughts, so many fears, so many expectations—both his own and others. The way Kent’s looking at him now is a vacancy, he knows, but he can’t bring himself to offload anything. As much as he doesn’t want to bear his demons, he doesn’t want to share them. He wouldn’t want to force them on anyone else. They’re his and his alone to bear; Kent doesn’t know, Kent can’t know, so he can’t really choose him, can he? That would be choosing them, and they’re not there to choose. 

‘I’ve weighed my options.’ Kent swallows but doesn’t let himself lose Chandler’s gaze. ‘You aren’t the only variable here.’

No, but Chandler’s rather sure he’s the more significant one. He tries to give Kent a look that says as much—because he can’t quite put any of this into words no matter how long he thinks about it—but he just gets a half-exasperated one in return.

‘This is not a negotiation of terms. We are not diplomats.’ The words are hard, forced, as if Kent knows he has to say them but he doesn’t really want to. Chandler barely believes him either way until his face softens and his voice quiets. ‘You don’t have to give me something for everything I give you.’

There’s an implication there. That statement isn’t only true for them sitting there, in the pub, having a half-slanted conversation that’s barely working. Or, well, Kent means it that way, doesn’t he? Chandler can’t be sure. He’s never bloody sure. He can work out when a suspect’s lying to him, when a distraught wife in an interview room isn’t quite what she seems, when a piece of evidence is too perfect to be honest. He just can’t tell if Kent means what Chandler thinks he means. He should be able to tell; he should be able to decide whether his doubt’s in his interpretation or in the words themselves.

Chandler’s vaguely aware that he should be saying something, should offer a contribution of his own to the conversation, but either he can’t think fast enough or Kent’s thinking too fast, spitting out all the words he’s thought to say but never quite got around to. They’re alike that way. Once they start, they can’t stop.

‘To reiterate: it’s the same for me. Whether you let us try or not. It doesn’t change how I feel. How I’ve felt.’ Kent hooks a foot around the leg of his chair, as if to anchor himself, and continues after a deep breath. ‘And that would carry on, after. If there was one.’

For a long moment, Chandler feels a little as if he’s taken a punch to the gut. Not quite that strong, but still, he’s stopped in his tracks. His thoughts screech to a halt, accosted by a sudden conclusion. The implicit assumption. He sips from his drink, the liquid bitter and grounding. Kent… Kent’s words. His assumptions. He thinks Chandler’ll get fed up with him first, not the other way around. He’s wrong, of course he his, but… that means something, doesn’t it? It must. It must, because Kent’s looking intently at the next table along again.

Chandler presses a thumb into his palm and, hoping his voice stays steady enough to speak, and asks, ‘Would you like to?’

Kent doesn’t move immediately, although Chandler can see the shift of expression in his profile. When he does turn it’s only to search Chandler for an explanation.

He clears his throat and attempts a clarification. ‘Try?’

Kent huffs, and although he’s going for derisive when he speaks, the hope seeps through. ‘Use your imagination.’

‘I would,’ Chandler murmurs when Kent does finally turn to look him in the eye,  ‘but I think I’d feel better if I heard it from you.’

Kent’s voice is soft, pitched just for the two of them, but even in the murmurations of the pub Chandler can pick out every word.

‘I’d like that very much.’

*

Chandler hadn’t had a chance to say anything in reply. Kent’s phone had gone in the beat after he finished speaking, and the sharp intake of breath that Chandler hadn’t managed to control had been masked by Kent’s annoyed curse as he typed back a reply to whoever had sent him that text. 

‘Will you—’ Kent starts, voice still tight, as he double-checks that the message sent before shoving the phone back in his pocket. ‘Will you walk with me?’

Chandler has no idea where he means, or in what direction, or for what reason, but he agrees regardless. He’s almost nodding before he’s thought it through and Kent grabs at the coat he’s draped over the back of his chair, draining the last of his beer as he gets to his feet. Chandler abandons his own and feels as if perhaps he should have taken his coat off when he arrived, but they’re well past that now. Just another in the line of his regrets.

Kent weaves through the tables with a practiced ease, managing to shrug on his coat without clipping any backs of chairs. Chandler follows but doesn’t quite catch up, but he couldn’t even if he wanted. He’s known Kent long enough to have realised that what sometimes looks like efficiency is a relative of malaise. He’s got his own theories as to why, and they all centre on what Miles had told him in that awful, _awful_ caff.

Chandler dare not mention it but he feels it, an aching concern. It’s not unfamiliar. 

Kent comes to something more akin to a stop once they’re on the pavement outside, doing up the buttons on his coat without looking. Instead he’s glancing up and down the road, only turning back to check Chandler’s still with him when an arriving group pushes past them both and the door slams.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yeah,’ Kent says, digging his hands into his pockets. ‘Just needed some air.’

Chandler doesn’t question it. He doesn’t know how long Kent’s been there, anyway; longer than him, certainly, and he’s always thought that pub has an excessive amount of wood panelling. Just the tone of the mahogany’s enough to be stifling no matter what you’re talking about. But judging from the way Kent’s taken off at a brisk pace makes Chandler think there was something else wrong with the atmosphere. Probably Chandler. Those sorts of things are generally his fault. Even so, Kent lets him catch up and fall into step; it’s easier than Chandler expects to imagine that other things just might slide into place as smoothly.

(Except nothing about this is smooth, is it?) 

‘Why now?’ he asks, because he’s wondered. He’s wondered since that first night whether or not Miles has been playing puppet master.

‘Why now?’ Kent makes a sound but doesn’t turn his head. ‘When else?’ He shrugs. ‘I don’t have that many options.’

‘You didn’t have to say anything.’ 

He really didn’t. If Miles has pushed him, Chandler’ll—well, he’ll figure something out. He’ll have to do something.

‘I, um… well, I did.’ Kent does look at him then, except it’s with a grim and restless shame that Chandler wishes he didn’t find familiar. ‘I forced myself to ask. Because I’ve spent too much time with the question on the tip of my tongue.’

Chandler still can’t believe the coincidence. They’re known each other for years and they’ve not been _this_ close before. There’s usually a catalyst in situations like this. A little push from off-stage.

‘Miles, um—well, he didn’t say anything to you, did he?’

Chandler’s halfway across the small road before he realises that Kent’s no longer at his side, although the echo of his steps still rings in his ears. He turns around, searching him out, and finds that Kent’s turned just turned a little down the side street, looking straight back at Chandler from where he’s shrouded just outside of light. Kent simultaneously doesn’t look like he’s going to be moved and as if a good gust of wind would get him halfway to Iceland. Chandler walks back towards him, irrationally irritated by the knobbled surface of the pavement where it stoops to reach the road under his feet, and comes to a hesitant stop before him

‘Kent,’ he says, voice hushed although it’s quiet and there’s no one else around save a motorcycle parked further down the street. ‘What are you—?’

‘Why are you denying yourself?’

Kent steps closer to his side, a bare hand-span away. Chandler lets him.

‘It’s because you always have, isn’t it?’

Except he hasn’t; he really hasn’t. He’s let his mind run away with him, he’s let it control him, he’s given in to most of his misguided instincts but he knows that’s not what Kent means. His eyes are wide, warm, watching. He means this. Proximity, trust, affection. Chandler hesitates to say romance, because who knows what that really is, but the thought rushes from his head as Kent lifts a hand to touch at Chandler’s jaw, to rest against his cheek.

His palm’s warm from being in his pockets, a world away from Chandler’s chilled fingers, brittle cold in the night air. Chandler’s caught between turning into the touch and stepping away; he does neither. Kent’s close, too close, and although some corner of Chandler’s brain urges him to flinch away he doesn’t. He forces himself to trust, because another part reminds him that he wants this, he doesn’t want to shrink away from Kent ( _Emerson_ ) and his hand on his skin isn’t pressure, it’s just warmth.

They look at each other, silent. Chandler can’t think what he’s supposed to be doing. It’s vaguely ridiculous but the thing that catches his attention are the marks pressed like thumb-prints under Kent’s eyes, evidence of something tiring Chandler can only guess at. Their job or him? Probably both. He wants to apologise but he’s no idea what for.

Kent stretches his fingers so that they catch around the back of Chandler’s neck, another web of warmth against the wind.

‘All right?’ he asks.

Chandler thinks he nods, but he can’t be entirely sure because Kent finally tips forward and presses his lips so, so softly against Chandler’s own. He’s definitely being kissed more than he’s doing the kissing, but Chandler’s eyes slip shut as Kent brushes his thumb across his cheek. He doesn’t even care that they’re stood on a street corner not far from the station, that the first wave of youngsters searching out the cheapest pints will be making their way down the main road at this very moment, that strictly speaking he shouldn’t be letting this situation happen at all. That he’s letting himself be kissed beside a row of shuttered shops and drifting swirls of rubbish. His head feels oddly, disconcertingly empty.

For a dangerous moment, all Chandler can feel is Kent’s mouth on his and all he can think is that he likes it, the gentle press and the careful way he breathes through his nose. It’s unfamiliar, and certainly not something he does often, but he _likes_ it. He hadn’t expected that.

The only problem is that he likes this, he does, he really does, but everyone pushes. No one, except him, is happy with just this. 

This is it, then. All he’ll have. All they’ll have. Not the extent, that’s not the problem, but the action; Chandler would be happy with this indefinitely, this being the pinnacle. It’s as far as he wants it to go and they’ve already reached it, stood on a street corner outside a pub on a Tuesday night, and the rest is denial. No one else has been able to be happy with that. So, this is it. Chandler knows, on some level, that this is it.

(Oh, how he doesn’t want it to be.) 

Kent pulls away as softly as he pressed forward, keeping his fingers curled around the back of Chandler’s neck. His head’s slightly cocked, still tilted; it makes the already inadequate light spill over his features oddly, lopsided. Maybe that’s why Chandler can’t stop looking at him. Because he really can’t. It’s quite disorienting, to say the least. If someone was to stop and ask what street they’re standing on, he wouldn’t be able to tell them.

The air’s like a tinderbox, waiting to be struck. Kent catches his lower lip with his teeth, looking away like he’s bracing himself for the rejection, for the blame, for the reprimand. 

It doesn’t come. Chandler can’t force himself to do it, even though he probably should.

A hesitant smile spooks the corner of Kent’s mouth. His face softens. ‘Can I just... kiss you again? Is that all right?’

The best ‘Yes,’ he can muster comes out as a whisper but it’s heartfelt; this time Chandler leans in because it’s a cool night and Kent is warm and he wants to. He kisses him back this time, hesitant and slight even as Kent smiles against him, cupping the kiss between his hands. Chandler doesn’t quite know what to do with his, not really, it’s been a while since he’s thought about this sort of logistics but somehow his fingers find their way to Kent’s waist. The grain of his coat is almost familiar.

When Kent retreats again, Chandler’s brain's a tick too late; he can’t think straight. Maybe that’s why when Kent shifts as if he’s about to step away Chandler’s fingers curl tighter in his coat of their own volition. He quite likes the way that makes Kent smile wider with one half of his mouth, like he can’t quite believe it. Well, Chandler can’t either. 

He’s not… he’s certainly not unhappy about it.

‘Do you do this, then?’ Kent asks, slipping his hand down the lapel of Chandler’s coat.

He can’t place where the breathlessness has come from.

‘Rarely.’

Kent balks a bit at that, snatching his hand back from where he’d laid his loosely curled knuckles against the base of Chandler’s ribs. The slight warmth, dulled by the depth of Chandler’s coat but still very much there and familiar, disappears and it’s almost immediately a loss; he wants it back, wants the solidarity it seemed to lend to his thoughts, but he doesn’t reach out to clasp Kent’s hand in his. They’re both treading exceedingly carefully.

Still, he doesn’t put his hands in back his pockets. Just in case.

Chandler clears his throat but his voice is still quiet. ‘I’m not set against it.’ 

‘You’re setting the ground rules,’ Kent says, matching his hushed tone. A car blares up the street perpendicular to them, the engine overloud in the night, but they ignore it. ‘This is up to you.’

‘You haven’t overstepped a boundary.’

Kent lets out a singular laugh and looks towards the main road; for the first time Chandler notices the pink flush at the back of his neck, the tops of his cheeks. ‘I can think of some people who’d disagree.’ 

Chandler’s hyperaware of his potential hypocrisy; if you’d asked him that morning he’d have been one of the very dissenters Kent’s referencing. He’s been hiding behind that argument since he’d started all this with his panicked blundering. And it’s a decent argument—it’s not _wrong_ —but… well, there are exceptions, Chandler supposes, and if he’s honest he’s tired of arguing. He has been for a while, he just hasn’t known how to stop.

He coughs a little again, then murmurs, ‘You haven’t overstepped any of my boundaries.' 

‘Yeah?’ breathes a very hopeful voice. Chandler can already tell he’s going to be powerless against it. 'You'll have to tell me where those are.' 

Chandler would, if he knew, but the honest answer is that he's not exactly sure, either. He hasn't tested them in years, but a thought occurs to him and he can’t bite it back.

‘I can’t—I won’t be able to share you.’

Kent had said he’d done some reading; he’ll know what Chandler means. Chandler had done a bit of his own reading in his time, when he’d first discovered there was a term for what he likely is other than awkward and unwilling. It isn’t the feasibility of this sort—their sort?—of relationship that’s a debate, it’s how it’s carried out. Plenty of them find it perfectly practical for their partners to go out and find other partners, _sexual_ partners; scratching the itch, so to speak. It’s been years since he’d thought about it properly, it’s the first time he’s actually considered it, but he can’t. He can’t. Selfish is only one of many words he can think to use about himself, especially in this case, but he’d rather Kent not bother with him at all if that’s what they would have to do. It doesn’t suit him, Chandler knows, and he doesn’t think it suits Kent either. 

‘Well,’ Kent begins, catching Chandler’s runaway thoughts with a soft hand on his cheek, thumb brushing against the corner of his mouth. ‘I don’t particularly want to be shared.’

Chandler’s trying to think of something to say to that, to Kent’s strangely affectionate face, when his train of thought’s interrupted by Kent’s phone. It seems to have a proclivity for interrupting them at pivotal moments.

They both jump; Kent steadies himself with a hand on Chandler’s shoulder then digs through his pockets. Chandler almost smiles at his burgeoning annoyance; it’s the same as he always is when he comes back from police business when Chandler’s sent him out with Mansell.

‘Christ’s sake, they don’t need to check up on me every single _bloody_ time…’

Chandler doesn’t press as Kent turns half away from him to type back an answer. He presses at the phone harder than he strictly needs to, just like the way he types with more pressure when Mansell’s winding him up, and that’s just another in a line of things Chandler had no idea he knew about Kent. Except he does, because it’s making him smile slightly at nothing in particular, and he doesn’t immediately stop. 

‘My flatmates,’ Kent says, noticing Chandler’s expression and mirroring it. ‘I’ve been longer than I said I’d be. And I was rather vague about what I was doing tonight.’

‘I’d better let you go, then.’

They exchange lopsided smiles, like they’ve been caught sneaking about. They sort of have. In an odd way. Chandler vaguely wonders if Miles knows already, alerted by some kind of phantom tremor. He’s probably just started chuckling at the dinner table, leaving Judy and the boys confused and Martha giggling along with him. It’s the sort of ridiculous thing that would happen to them.

Kent taps his mobile against the palm of his hand, almost a nervous gesture. He’s got a lot of those, Chandler knows, most involving his hands; it’s funny, really, what he’s absorbed while trying not to notice.

‘Ring me,’ Kent says, wrapping his fingers around the mobile, ‘if you need anything.’ 

There’s a look in his eye that says he doesn’t want to go, not really, but neither of them really know where to go from here, do they? Somewhere, obviously, but Chandler can’t think where that is. Yet. It must exist because if it didn’t Kent wouldn’t be looking at him with such soft optimism. They’ll find it, won’t they? 

He’s starting to think he won’t mind looking.

Chandler nods, allowing himself a small, reassuring smile. ‘See you in the morning, then.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: 17 July 2014. 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for the lovely comments, kudos, and support you've all given this fic! It's absolutely wonderful! Though I must admit I'm getting more nervous each time I post a new chapter--I thought it'd get easier, but apparently not! I certainly don't want to disappoint. I'll do my best, though. ;) 
> 
> A quick note: I seem to remember reading somewhere that Miles' daughter is called Martha in the series, though I have no idea where. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong as far as canon goes!


	5. Chapter 5

‘I suppose congratulations are in order.’

This time, Chandler doesn’t even look up from his paperwork. Miles marches into the office as if he owns it—as he usually does—and shuts the door behind him. Chandler completes another line on his form, the letters neat and capital.

‘Are they?’ he asks, as lackadaisical as he gets. 

‘There’s only one thing I can think of that could make young Kent that giddy.’

Chandler remains silent, keeping his eyes on the page as he ticks another box. The spot on his arm where Kent had laid his hand for a split second on his way out prickles under the line of his suit as if the skin’s burning amber—a beacon. The way Miles chuckles doesn’t give Chandler much confidence in the comfort that the feeling’s only in his head.

‘And it involves you.’

There’s another pause. It stretches. Neither of them relieve the tension. 

It’s been less than twenty-four hours. Chandler would say that there’s no way Miles could have noticed anything, no way that anything’s changed that much, but something has changed, hasn’t it? He can’t put a finger on it, not really, but he has noticed. Even in himself. He’d woken up this morning and, beyond all expectation, he hadn’t felt as if the world was about to crumble around him. He’d walked into work and passed Kent’s bike in the station car park and he hadn’t been paralyzed by guilt. He’s played _what if_? with every situation he’s ever been in, and for once it hasn’t fulfilled his worst expectations. It’s such a heartening thought that when Kent had dropped in to his office as they were all supposed to be on their way to lunch and asked if he, possibly, if there wasn’t anything on, would like to go for a drink later, he’d smiled and said that yes, he thought that would be possible. 

He’s quite looking forward to it, actually. Not that he isn’t terrified—because he is—but even that’s a slightly different species than it usually is.

Chandler clears his throat. ‘I’m not admitting to anything.’

‘Course you aren’t.’ Miles grins. ‘No one does, on the job.’

They slip back into another silence, this one more contented than the last. Chandler has an odd feeling that Miles is chuckling at the entire thing, at their ridiculous charade, at the way they all carry on. If it wasn’t him who was involved he’d probably be sat there casting a vaguely amused eye over it all, too. It’s not funny, it’s really not, it’s bloody panic-inducing and so fragile and anything could tip them over and Chandler doesn’t know if that’d be a good or a bad thing, but amusement is the only way to cope with it. Even if the smile that’s playing on his face is tinged with fright.

‘He’s taken a leaf out of your book,’ the sergeant continues, not without a degree of pride. ‘Told me to fuck off, earlier, when I asked him.’ Miles positively beams—or as much as he’s wont to do, anyway. ‘So something’s gone right.’

Chandler really shouldn’t be smiling about that, really _really_ shouldn’t be, but it’s not the worst thing he’s done, is it?

Miles rubs his hands together with a theatrical relish. ‘I’ve been waiting for some proper insubordination from him for _years_.’

‘I hardly think that counts.’

‘Well, it’s him, isn’t it?’ Miles shrugs. ‘The only other thing he’s done is take up with—‘

Chandler gives him a quick, stern look that only survives the answering laugh because it’s Chandler and he’d win prizes for his dedication to disapproving expressions. He can’t keep this one there for long though, because it’s obviously having no effect whatsoever on Miles’ barely concealed delight, and Chandler looks down at the desk and finds his face mirrored in the high polish of the walnut top. Funny, really. He’d almost expected that he’d be different, somehow, as if something in his face would change and he’d catch himself while shaving or find his nose had migrated to his chin while he wasn’t looking. But, no, he looks just as he had this time yesterday.

‘I ought to be giving you a gold star for trying something new.’

Chandler shoots Miles another unimpressed look. At least that feeling feels natural to him. 

‘God, you haven’t nicked that expression from Liam, have you?’ Miles chuckles despite Chandler’s exasperated head-shaking. ’You’re the spitting image of him when I suggest he might want to get a move on with his physics coursework.’

‘It was all exam in my day.’

‘Something we agree on, then.’

Chandler makes a vaguely assenting noise and moves the sheet he’s just finished filling in to another pile at the edge of his desk. He lingers over it for a moment, pinching each corner between his thumb and forefinger.

‘So, are you coming to the pub with us tonight?’ Miles gestures over his shoulder like he usually does; he’s trained the rest of them so well that all he has to do is motion with a questioning expression on his face and they’re all halfway to getting their coats. ‘I think it’s probably time I bought you a drink.’

Chandler shakes his head. ‘Sorry. I have a… previous engagement.’

He fully expects Miles to scoff and argue his point; it wouldn’t be the first time and even Chandler’s well aware he’s just used one of his weaker-sounding excuses. Ironically, seeing as for once it’s true—and doesn’t involve a meeting with the Commander. But the silence stretches too long and Chandler gets that prickling feeling on the back of his neck that suggests he’s missing something.

He looks up, ready to pseudo-interrogate his sergeant, but Miles’ face gives him away. ‘You were never actually going to go to the pub, were you?’

Miles turns and walks out, chuckling. If Chandler didn’t know better, he’d say he was gloating.

But he does know better, and he’s relatively sure that Miles has already called ahead and told Judy to get the champagne out.

*

The first time Kent comes round to Chandler’s flat, he takes one look at his bookcases and says, ‘You’re an armchair historian.’

Chandler’s so taken by surprise he says, ‘No, I’m not,’ before he’s really processed what’s been said.

Kent gives a little affectionate laugh as he walks back towards where Chandler’s stood. ‘Yes, you are.’

Chandler can’t really argue with that. Not when he actually has a chance to think it though; he still can’t really believe that they’re here, that they’re doing that, but Kent doesn’t look nearly as out of place in his flat, his space, as Chandler had feared.

Kent strokes a hand across Chandler’s back as he walks past, and as he turns to face him Chandler allows himself a slightly sheepish, ‘I’m not as bad as Ed.’

‘No one’s as bad as Ed.’

Then Chandler laughs and Kent grins and something changes. He can’t tell what it is, except perhaps that he’s just been more honest than he usually dares, and Kent hasn’t even mentioned that they’re all in alphabetical order by author. He hasn’t made any comment about anything Chandler might have thought he would. He knows he’s… particular, and that it’s obvious, but he doesn’t want it pointed out. Not really. The knowledge pains him enough already. But Kent’s just leant an arm across the back of the closest barstool and not batted an eyelid at how clinical Chandler knows he can be. He’s just smiling, and for some mysterious reason, Chandler finds himself smiling back. 

‘Do you do this to everyone you visit?’ he asks, nodding past Kent’s shoulder to the bookshelves. ‘Have a good look at their book collection?’

‘You know what they say about books,’ Kent says with a knowing look followed by a shrug. ‘And anyway, I’ve wondered. I never could picture you watching Top Gear.’

Something about him falters there; Chandler wonder if that’s a creeping blush that’s colouring the tops of Kent’s cheeks. Chandler feels a flush of warm embarrassment himself but for once it’s not entirely unwelcome. Kent’s just admitted something there and there’s no question about it. His stomach does a strange shadow of a flip when Kent looks back at him, his teeth worrying the corner of his bottom lip.

‘Can’t blame me, really, can you?’ he asks, the flush getting infinitesimally deeper. Chandler can’t help but think it suits him.

‘Emerson—’

‘I don’t mind Em, you know,’ Kent says, the words coming out in such a rush it takes Chandler a moment to absorb them. Kent takes another breath and steadies a smile. ‘The only diminutive I won’t put up with is Emma, and I think that’s more Mansell’s sense of humour than yours.’

Chandler huffs out a little laugh, because it’s true. But it also makes him think, because doesn’t that sort of imply that Kent’s been wondering what it’d be like if he called him by his name?

He suddenly feels ever so slightly light-headed.

‘Em.’

He’s only trying the syllable on for size but, remarkably, it doesn’t feel that bizarre or outlandish. It might not feel right, not yet, but it feels like something he might be able to get used to. That he _will_ get used to. It shouldn’t take long. Not if Kent keeps beaming at him like that.

‘Well, Em,’ Chandler tries again, with a little more emphasis this time. ‘I have been known to branch out.’

Kent cocks a brow at him, a smile playing on the corner of his mouth. For a moment Chandler wonders if he’s borrowed that expression from Miles, but no, they’re only similar. This one’s all him. Miles had been right—it’s only Kent who looks at him like that, isn’t it?

He clears his throat, determined to continue regardless. ‘Once in a blue moon.’

The smile on Kent’s face widens to something indistinguishable, then he steals a swift kiss and Chandler sighs through his nose—and that’s that.

He’s still not entirely sure what’s happening, but he doesn’t dislike it.

*

_Kent. Leave a name and number and I’ll get back to you when I can._

Chandler ends the call before the telltale click and rests the mobile against his chin. He tells himself that Kent’s a grown man, a police officer; that he’s more than capable of managing himself. It’s just that the last time Kent had consistently not answered his phone they’d found him on a hospital bed.

He’s being irrational, he knows.

It still doesn’t change the gut feeling.

He’d just wanted to speak to him. Which is ridiculous, because he spoke to him yesterday, because they worked a shift together and he should be able to go eighteen hours without hearing from him. But it’s their day off, barring any extenuating circumstances, and that makes it different. Chandler’s not entirely sure how, but it does. He’s terrible at saying what he means, at voicing his (emotional) thoughts; he probably won’t be able to get any words out that he wouldn’t say at the office but for some godforsaken reason he’s got the urge to try.

Well, had. He just feels a bit sick now.

He’ll try again—just once more, because he doesn’t particularly want his name to show up next to a frankly ridiculous amount of missed calls. He’s not that desperate. He could even say he’s not that much of an anxious sort of man, but who’s he kidding? He’s an anxious sort of man. He’s been known to do slightly ridiculous things. This is the least of it.

_Kent. Leave a name and number and I’ll—_

He can’t listen to him say it again. Too many words are rattling around in his head already. _Ring me if you need anything_.

Chandler gets up from where he’s been sat at his kitchen table; the chair scrapes but for some reason he’s not actually too worried about his floors. The sound brings him out of the spiral for a moment, back to his concrete surroundings instead of his thoughts. His flat’s quiet, just as it always is, but he hasn’t found it oppressive before. At least, not like this. 

He’d put the telly on but it’s all either football or crime drama at the weekend, neither of which he can stand. Chandler supposes there’s the news, the twenty-four hour channel, then he remembers the fella who’s always going on about the latest tech and he realises he can’t stand him either. Miles must be rubbing off on him; he doesn’t remember always being this intolerant. Or maybe he was, just about different things.

His phone rings just as he’s almost managed to convince himself that silence is fine, he’s never had a problem with it before, except those few times that he doesn’t think about anymore, and Chandler wheels around with a rush of relief that’s probably unwarranted. He shouldn’t have been feeling the anxiety in the first place, really, but he can’t help but reach for his mobile with a speed that’s probably too eager. At least no one there to see except him. Though he’ll probably remember in an hour and feel the familiar flush of embarrassment regardless.

‘Sir?’ Kent speaks as soon as Chandler’s accepted the call; he sounds almost as rattled as Chandler feels. ‘God, sorry, I’ve just checked my phone. I’m at arrivals in Heathrow, the signal’s a bit shit, one minute—’

His voice dies away in favour of the background lull of noise and movement, then there’s the distinctive sound of Kent saying ‘Sorry, excuse me, could I just get past—’ then, from a little further away, a voice that’s almost half-familiar: ‘The fuck, Em?’

‘Kent—’ 

‘Right, found a window. Is that better? Sorry—sorry about not picking up, I’ve been on the Tube for the better part of an hour and a half. It was heaving until Hammersmith, I couldn’t have heard it going even if there was signal underground, then after that I don’t know. I’ve no idea why my mobile phone signal’s so consistently terrible; I’ve barely got any in here and it’s an international bloody airport—’

It doesn’t even matter that he’s rambling, spitting out every reason he knows as some sort of roundabout apology. It’s his voice and Chandler holds it close against his ear. 

‘Kent.’ He tries to interrupt but it doesn’t quite work. ‘Kent, it’s all right.’

‘Nothing’s come in, has it?’

‘No,’ Chandler says, quiet now he has to admit it. ‘No, it was just me.’

‘Oh,’ Kent says, sounding a little confused, then there’s a small intake of breath and another, ‘ _Oh._ ’

Chandler doesn’t quite know what to say to that; he just stares at his knees and listens to the mixture of Kent’s breathing and the murmur of the crowd in the background. A voice over the tannoy announces an arrival from Moscow and a delayed departure to somewhere that he’s relatively sure the announcer mispronounced. There’s a rustling in the speakers that suggests that Kent’s trying to get a nonverbal message across to whoever it is he’s with. Chandler suddenly feels as if he’s being invasive, pestering, but Kent hadn’t sounded put out. Only surprised.

‘Why are you at Heathrow, then?’ he asks, pulling himself together. He’s not sixteen anymore, after all. He can manage. ‘I don’t remember authorising any leave recently.’ 

There’s a laugh and something in Chandler’s chest unclenches a little more, so that the knot of tension he’s been nursing for the past hour loosens to a stage that might be called comfortable.

‘Because someone’s too cheap to get a taxi—’ 

Kent’s clearly speaking to both him and whoever he’s with in the flesh and they interrupt with a sharp, ‘Sod off!’

‘—and somehow roped me into feeding her cat and carrying her bags.’

Well, that explains the longer than usual lunch hours. Kent hadn’t been taking so long that he didn’t get back when he was strictly supposed to,  so Chandler had no real reason to say anything, but he had wondered. And that long, thin scratch on the back of his hand makes more sense, too; he had been going to ask about that, but Miles had commandeered his attention with a sheaf of photocopies and it had slipped his mind. 

‘My twin sister comes back from Chicago and all I get for coming to meet her is an overdone sigh and a “You’re late, you know?”’ 

Chandler can tell this part of the conversation’s not meant for him. It’s not an entirely unfamiliar feeling, though the logical part of him reminds his treacherous brain that he trusts Kent, he knows that he knows what he’s doing. He’s never been carelessly inconsiderate; not with him, anyway. So there’s a reason.

There’s another murmured sound just a little too far from the phone for Chandler to catch with any clarity, then Kent scoffs in a way that rivals Miles on a particularly sarcastic day.

‘Not my fault there was a signal failure at Osterley.’

That’s still not for him. They both know that, don’t they? It’s a bit odd. The one thing (well, _one thing_ is probably a bit of an understatement) that’s struck him is how much they know. How much is already in place. How little they have to change. Maybe that’s what Kent meant, before. Maybe he knew. Chandler wouldn’t be surprised if that’s true; there’s only one place where he has all the answers, and even then it’s only now and again.

‘I think,’ Kent continues, voice heavy with implication, ‘the least she could do is buy me a coffee.’

In the background there comes a questioning, ‘Usual, yeah?’

Kent hums his assent and waits for a moment. Chandler fools himself into thinking he can hear someone walking away, though what he can actually here is a few hundred people milling about.

‘I would have liked it if you could have got through then,’ Kent says, his voice gentler than a moment beforehand. ‘Osterley’s above ground; if I didn’t have such a terrible carrier then maybe I would have had a signal.’ His voice drops to an almost hush, an afterthought. ‘You could have kept me company.’

Chandler huffs as he sits down on his sofa, rubbing hand across his brow. ‘I did try my best.’

(He did. Christ. He really shouldn’t have, should he? They’re barely into whatever this is and he’s already digging himself a hole.)

Kent makes a half-amused sound in his throat and asks, ‘You’re all right, then?’

‘What? Yes.’

‘It’s just… well, I said to ring if you needed anything.’ 

Chandler can’t help but feel the flush of embarrassment as keenly as he usually does. ‘Sorry.’

‘Sorry, no, that’s not what I meant—’ Kent stumbles over his words a little, then stops and sighs. ‘It’s a good thing that queue’s long.’

A small laugh fights its way out of Chandler’s chest at the resigned sound of Kent’s words, the slight tinge of humour that he’s plainly not sure Chandler will suit. Except he does understand, he does, and Chandler’s glad that that queue’s long if it means they can meander around in their usual miscommunications and eventually come to a conclusion. Whichever way that goes.

‘Sorry, I just—‘

Chandler doesn’t have the words. _Wanted to hear your voice_ sounds feeble, vaguely clingy, although it’s true. _Wondered how you were doing_ is equally inane, because they were together yesterday, but yesterday’s far enough away from today for something to have happened. _Wanted to say hello_ doesn’t sound like something he’d ever do, yet he’d been halfway to doing it. He’s really got no idea what he’s doing, has he?

He sighs. ‘I don’t know what I just.’

There’s a pause that’s just long enough for one of Kent’s smiles (though perhaps that’s wishful thinking), then he says, ‘It’s still a good job you did. I was going to ring you later but I’m not sure Erica would have given me a moment to myself. Not without telling her everything, which I’m certainly not planning on doing yet.’

‘You don’t have to do that, if you don’t want.’

‘Trust me, that’s for my own benefit. Otherwise I’d never hear the end of it. She’s tenacious.’ 

It must be a family trait, then, Chandler reckons.

‘Miles said the same about you, once.’

‘Did he now?’ Kent chuckles. ‘I’ll have to have a word with him.’

‘It’s never just one word.’

There’s another short laugh that says Kent knows what Chandler’s referring to, that he’s experienced it firsthand. They all have, really, but if that half-overheard conversation that Chandler had never been able to completely wipe from his mind is anything to go by then Kent might have been the subject of sustained pestering, just like him. Perhaps at a lesser volume. Or perhaps more, since Miles has all sorts of seniority on him. Sometimes Chandler wonders if he’s not really the one who’s in charge.

Kent clears his throat. ‘I could come round later.’ 

‘That’d be…’ Chandler doesn’t know what the right word is, let alone how to look for it, so he trails off and settles for a quiet, ‘Yes. Do.’ 

‘All right.’

(Chandler can hear the smile. He wants to see it. It’s more visceral a feeling than he’s expected.)

‘Shall I bring some food with me?’ Kent asks, sounding the slightest bit more eager.

‘If you want.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Chandler almost tells Kent to stop underselling himself, because he usually manages to come up with something more than suitable when it matters, but he’s simultaneously shocked at his own sentimentality and distracted by the faceless third voice rejoining conversation.

‘All right, bumface?’

Kent makes a sound that’s a mix between dismay and surprise. Chandler can’t blame him, because even over a mobile connection his sister’s voice sounds like it belongs to someone who’s about to embark on an intensive interrogation, likely involving bribery. He’s inclined to offer a preemptive apology, because she sounds more determined than Miles on an especially good day, but he doesn’t have much of a chance.

‘Got to go.’ 

*

_That chippy at the end of your road. Any good?_

Chandler wouldn’t know. He says as much, although he suspects some of the nuance of the sentiment is lost over text.

*

Kent arrives a couple of hours later armed with a carrier bag of battered fish. It’s not something Chandler usually finds himself eating, though Kent’s expression is a little harassed under the smile he greets Chandler with and if it’s chips that will fix that then Chandler’s all for it. He was the one that forced fish on them in the first place, after all, and the batter’s probably the last remnant of Miles’ tongue-in-cheek compromises.

‘Hello,’ Kent says as he crosses the threshold into the flat, following Chandler’s gesture. ‘God, I’m glad to see you after the day I’ve had.’

Chandler stands there with the door open for a moment too long as he absorbs that opening statement, but shuts and locks the door as he shakes rationality back into his head.

It doesn’t last, though, because somehow Kent manages to get a gentle hand around the back of Chandler’s head and draws him down for a warm kiss. Chandler accidentally keeps his eyes open for a second too long but relaxes against Kent’s touch, the way he can stroke and hold at the same time, and he’s still trying to process this sudden flurry of activity when Kent leans away, sliding his hand across the crisp line of Chandler’s collar and the seams of the soft knit across his shoulders.

Chandler has a distinct feeling of moving much slower than the world around him. Even his thinking seems to have slowed to the pace of treacle. It’s almost all he can do to remember to keep taking breaths.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’

Time speeds up again; now normality feels perilously fast.

‘Pardon?’

‘You’ve gone very quiet.’

‘I’m not—‘ Chandler loses the words and tries to find them in the skirting boards. When that doesn’t work he tries Kent’s face, but that just puts him in more of a muddle. ‘This is new.’

‘I, um.’ Kent presses a tooth into his lower lip, flexes his fingers around the plastic handles. ‘I can stop. If you want me to. We can—’

‘No,’ Chandler says, catching Kent’s gaze again. ‘No. You don’t have to.’

‘ _You_ don’t have to.’

He wants to. Chandler wants to be affectionate. He wants to kiss Kent each time he feels like it. He wants to be able to do what he does, brush and nudge and press touch against his skin. He just doesn’t bloody well know how and the deer-in-headlights feeling he gets every time Kent shows him how isn’t helping. It was almost easier when he wanted to but told himself he couldn’t; now he wants to but still can’t, not really, not until he figures out how to get used to it. To the execution. To getting from here to there.

(He can dress it up in as many words as he likes but it’s still a distraction from what he really should be doing.)

Kent doesn’t look especially convinced, and the self-reproach is almost palpable when Chandler reaches to rub his hand across the back of his neck. He hadn’t meant to follow the path Kent’s touch had set—he hadn’t even thought of it—and he certainly didn’t want to erase it. But that’s how it looks, doesn’t it? Chandler smothers the compulsion to cringe and instead touches at Kent’s elbow, fingers timid but unequivocal, to urge him further into the kitchen.

‘Why was your sister in Chicago, then?’ he asks, changing the subject while he still can.

‘Erica? Research.’ Half a smile plays on his mouth, and Chandler’s still not sure if that’s because his hand’s still hovering at Kent’s side or because his sister’s research is particularly comedic. ‘She may not look it but she’s an academic.’

Chandler can’t comment on her supposed suitability—he’s never met her, after all—but if she’s anything like Kent then he’s not surprised. He doesn’t look like a policeman. Not really. Though he’s not entirely sure what an academic’s supposed to look like beyond an excess of herringbone and tweed.

‘What’s her subject?’

‘Art history. She dabbles in philosophy, too. It’s all very cerebral.’ 

Chandler’s relatively confident Kent could follow it if he wanted to (he’s sorted through enough in his own line of work, after all, and without any particular training) but it’s the sort of thing you have to be interested in, isn’t it? In fact it’s not entirely out of his own realm of interests, so perhaps they’d get on—but thinking about meeting Kent’s sister in this capacity (whatever _this_ is) is different from meeting her as DI Joseph Chandler and he’s rather confident that he’s getting ahead of himself again.

‘She’s a wordsmith.’ Kent continues, depositing the food on a clear bit of counter. ‘Makes her hell to argue with.’

Chandler could say the same for him but he’s not going to; he’s not quite ready to go there yet.

‘Had a lot of that, have you?’

Kent looks at him as if that’s an obvious question; Chandler wouldn’t know. He spent more of his time arguing with himself, let alone other people. 

‘Avoided quite a bit of it, actually. Even at the tender age of eighteen we both knew we’d kill each other if we tried to share a flat. We’re too alike for our own good.’ Kent pauses there, as if that’s supposed to mean something more, but Chandler says nothing. ‘Anyway, different unis. She started off at York. I came down to London and never quite figured out how to leave.’ 

‘Started off?’

‘Undergrad and MA. She did her doctorate at UCL. Lectures first-years there now, last time I checked.’

‘I don’t envy her marking duties.’ 

‘Don’t mention it, I read her dissertation so many times I could repeat it back to you.’

‘I wasn’t aware you had that sort of expertise,’ Chandler says and it’s only half a joke.

‘I was on strict instructions to look at grammar and _only_ grammar.’ Kent looks at him with another significant expression, not that Chandler’s entirely sure what it means. ‘Thousands upon thousands of words on seascapes and visual culture, or something like that. I said I could repeat it, not that I understood it.’ 

Half the time Chandler has the same feeling with the files Ed delivers to him. Once he’s looked at them enough, which he usually does. In fact, they’d wanted to know a little more about that Hogarth series, _The Four Stages of Cruelty_ , or whatever it was. Except whenever Chandler asked Ed would just grumble at him, saying he’s a crime historian not an art historian, and in any case Tom Nero wasn’t actually real, he does realise? The best he’d got was a referral to a few pages on the Murder Act of 1751 but Chandler’s since concluded that that was just a ploy to get him out of his hair.

‘I don’t suppose…’ Chandler begins, trailing off; this is probably what Riley would call being a bit cheeky. 

‘Hogarth?’ Kent fills in with a grin. ‘Already asked her. She’s a bit like you, you know. Handed me a book.’

The arriving smile takes Chandler by surprise. He doesn’t have a chance to stop it, even if he’d have wanted to.

‘And you know I haven’t had the time to read it,’ Kent says with a soft warning glance. ‘Not that there’s much chance round mine.’

Chandler nods as if he knows; he’s only got a little bit of an idea, although Kent’s told him bits and pieces about his flatmates. He can’t quite conceive of anyone who wouldn’t let someone sit down and read—at least, not anyone over the age of twenty-five who might take the task upon themselves—but he’s tried. He’s thought about it quite a bit, to be honest, but he’s not quite comfortable admitting it to himself yet. It still feels a little like an invasion of privacy, no matter how much Kent offers to him. 

He’s only seen Kent like this a couple of times. A few more if you could those first few days, when they’d only just met each other.  For some reason Chandler had thought it’d be like snapping back in time, that Kent would somehow still be the same person who handed him chalk. But of course he is, he _is_ , but he’d expected to feel like he’s looking at the same person and he isn’t. Chandler can’t tell if that’s his fault or time’s or Kent’s (probably a bit of each) but it’s different.

Maybe he’s just never really taken the time to notice before. He certainly wouldn’t have made note of the way Kent pushes up the sleeves of his jumper (not too far, only mid-forearm, probably to not pull the knit too much), the way he favours his right-hand pocket for storage (makes sense, it’s his dominant hand) but he’s more likely to rest his fingers in the left-hand one. 

Chandler doesn’t know why all the detail fascinates him so much. Or, he does, but he doesn’t understand why the need doesn’t trouble him; it just intrigues, and knowing that Kent allows—wants—him to ask almost compels him to do so. So he will, when the right questions occur to him. It’s just knowing what and when that’s problematic.

‘Any particular craving?’ Chandler asks as he slides into the space next to Kent, their elbows brushing with each breath.

‘Not exactly.’ Kent shrugs a single shoulder and nudges Chandler’s waist so he can reach to open a drawer. ‘It was either that or supermarket sushi.’

‘Decent, or…’

‘Depressing. Definitely depressing.’

Chandler chuckles, because he can just imagine it and for once it doesn’t make him wince, not when it’s said in Kent’s voice wrapped up in half a laugh.

‘If we’re being honest,’ Kent adds, looking up at Chandler with a mischievous smile that’s more familiar than it should be. ‘I just wanted to see you eat chips.’

* 

Chandler had wondered when it would happen, and it turns out it’s when they’ve just finished rinsing out the mugs of tea that Chandler only really offered because he needed something to do with his hands. Kent reaches for the bone-dip of Chandler’s wrist just as he’s draping the tea towel back into its place and a sharp breath must escape Chandler’s lungs because he’s been slowly losing the ability to maintain complete control of himself over the course of the afternoon as it slides into evening. He wonders; his imagination’s too good and even as Kent loosens his grip Chandler can’t help but think that this might be the time he inadvertently makes Kent realise he’s made a mistake.

Kent’s expression suggests he might just have borrowed a bit of Miles’ predilection for reading minds.

‘Your boundaries,’ he says, half a question and half a reminder. 

Chandler sighs. ‘I don’t know where they are, either.’

Kent squeezes the joint, gently, then lets his fingers fall away. ‘Tell me when.’ 

Chandler doesn’t quite trust the instinct to reach out for his hand, to weave his fingers between Kent’s, but he does say, ‘You could… get a bit closer to them.’

That was a terrible line; even he can tell that much. It’s still the best he’s got. 

Kent stops and looks at him. Just looks. Chandler swallows.

‘If you want,’ he says, a prompt that he needs an answer to. 

Stepping back to where he’d stood a moment before, Kent asks, ‘Do you want me to?’ 

‘I think so.’ 

Kent looks at him as if he doesn’t know where to start. Chandler’s got no answers, he doesn’t know where to start either, and neither of them move for a long moment. Chandler’s convinced the hum of his fridge has suddenly got a lot louder, but that might just be the rush of blood to his head as Kent steps into his space proper and reaches to rest his hands on the side of Chandler’s face, his fingers brushing the hammering pulse. Chandler’s sure Kent can feel it, he must, because there’s a small smile playing on his mouth as he slips touch across the sides of his neck, across the carotid artery.

‘You know, I never imagined you owning cardigans.’ Kent smooths his hands across Chandler’s shoulders, an exploratory touch, before tucking his fingers under Chandler’s collar. His touch is warmer, more present, separated by cotton alone. ‘I sort of thought they’d be more my area.’

‘You imagined?’

‘Why are you surprised? You’re interesting.’ 

Chandler sighs, testing the weight of Kent’s touch. ‘I’m a mess.’ 

‘They aren’t mutually exclusive.’

Chandler huffs out a reluctant laugh as he feels Kent’s hands curling underneath and around his shoulders, slow and hesitant. He doesn’t press or pull, just leaves his hands there until Chandler takes the obvious hint and steps a little closer. Kent won’t take, will he, but he’s as good as asking. Chandler’s asked him to ask.

His arms come around to clasp over Kent’s shoulders. If Chandler had thought that Kent might feel even more slender than he looks, then he’s pleasantly surprised to find that he feels the opposite. He’s certainly lean, and narrow-waisted, but he’s solid. He’s assuredly more than an idea, and he’s been that in Chandler’s head for so long that feeling his heart beat against his chest is almost shocking.

It’s this that requires more trust, actually. Chandler hasn’t thought about it—not really, he wouldn’t have thought that anyone _would_ but they must, mustn’t they?—but now he does he can’t see why this would be considered only as stepping-stone to more, thought of as harmless. There’s so much more of Kent when he’s this close. There’s no perspective to anchor him, just Kent’s hair and a faint heartbeat and his jumper, body-warm.

A kiss is quick, fleeting. Most of the time. Most of the ones Chandler’s had. An embrace—letting someone that close, letting Kent this close—is different and the same all at the same time. A conjunction but something else entirely. It’s so close—so, so close—to horror that Chandler swallows and tries to stop thinking of a blade between ribs, a threat whispered hot against an ear; he’s suddenly very aware of his own chest rising and falling and the way Kent’s is doing the same.

It’s not bad.

There’s nothing there threatening him beyond the pounding of his own heart, the way it’s gone ahead without him.

It’s actually quite nice.

Chandler finds himself enjoying the contact, the mirrored beat of Kent’s heart and the shift of his musculature as he adjusts his grip ever so slightly, until he catches himself being disproportionately happy and he can't not do anything about that, can he? Because it's so out of the ordinary that something must be wrong. It just doesn't happen, and it can't stay, not even if Kent's weight against him doesn't feel like it can be shifted very easily. Chandler doesn't have to move him; that's not his job. That's Kent's, and he'll come to his senses eventually. They always do. Even the well-meaning ones.

He clears his throat against the side of Kent’s head. ‘You don’t need to go and see Erica?’

‘God, no,’ Kent says, and suddenly his voice is more than sound. It’s touch, too, warmth and vibration. ‘We’ve had enough of each other for one day.’

Chandler sniffs, choosing his words carefully. ‘And you’ve not had enough of me?’

Kent sighs and presses his nose into the crook of Chandler’s shoulder; if that’s supposed to be an answer Chandler doesn’t know how to interpret it. He suppresses the urge to lean back, lean away, and try and read Kent’s face, because as confusing as he once thought his expressions were he knows now they’re nothing compared to the opacity of the rest of him, of his gestures. Chandler thinks he knows but even Kent he second guesses. Even _him_.

(He knows it’s a curse; it must be.)

There must be something about him that betrays his mind—there usually is, even if he’s never sure exactly what it is. Kent lifts his head with a controlled sigh and shifts one hand so he’s barely touching the back of Chandler’s hair, his fingers glancing and somehow communicating affection. Chandler doesn’t understand it, doesn’t see how he can get from the sensation to the feeling (or are they the same thing?), but Kent’s looking at him with a soft expression and that doesn’t seem to quite fit, either. There’s too much concern in it.

‘You really don’t think I want to be here, do you?’ he asks.

‘I… I don’t know what I think.’ That’s the truth, at least. Maybe if Chandler admits it, everything will be clearer. ‘What I do know is that I don’t quite believe it.’

‘In a good way?’

There’s still so much hope in those words, and it doesn’t help that Chandler can see his own contribution, the reflection of his harboured, careful longing. 

Chandler nods, gently squeezing Kent’s ribs. ‘In a good way.’

*

‘I’ll see you later?' 

Chandler looks up from where he’s just tucked Mansell’s chair back under his desk to find Kent standing in the aisle between the desks, shrugging on his coat. He smothers down the urge to tidy Mansell’s workspace as well, just to get the job done before it gets too bad, and pulls slightly on the elastic band around his wrist.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing better for you to do?’

Kent leans over to switch off the monitor on the nearest computer. ‘Well, I haven’t exactly double-checked.’

He’s still not used to Kent smiling at him. Or, well, smiling at him when he knows why. In theory. He’s still not sure of that, either. It’s all a bit wobbly. Kent knows that wasn’t what he meant, doesn’t he? There’s nothing on that’s worthy of them staying past clocking-off time; their last few cases have all been wrapped and handed over to CPS and the most exciting thing on Chandler’s desk is a request for an updated expense report. What he means is that there must be something better on the horizon for a free evening for Kent, even if there isn’t for him.

To be honest, he was just going to work on that expenses report. It would probably take him half the night to think up a new plausible excuse for the costs Ed accrues. They may pay him in tea and biscuits but he’s more trouble on an organizational level than Chandler had initially expected.

‘There must be something,’ Chandler murmurs, aimless until he notices a crisp packet and reaches to tip it into the bin.

‘What, like doing expenses?’ 

‘How—?’

Kent grins but doesn’t make to move. ‘Skip’s not the only one of us who can put two and two together and get four.’

Chandler feels like he keeps getting five but can’t see where he’s going wrong. Or maybe he isn’t, maybe he is getting four and he just can’t understand why. He straightens the keyboard in front of the neatly tucked chair, aligning the edges, and tries to decide whether or not his urge to tidy up crosses some sort of boundary.

‘It’s all right,’ Kent says after a moment. Chandler looks at him and takes note of the way he nods, hands in pockets, towards the mess. ‘Mansell won’t mind. He probably won’t even notice.’

There’s not even a trace of a chuckle in his words; Chandler’s grateful but he curls his fingers into a momentary fist at his side and battles the need down. Even if it doesn’t matter, strictly speaking, it does because he can’t keep going around like this. Not so often, anyway. Kent already knows that the lighter version of this goes on most nights; he’s seen it, Chandler’s got used to his presence around the station, and his feeble _What? No, that would be strange_ the first time was no convincing answer.

Either way, Kent doesn’t tell him what to do. He just advances a little closer and leafs through the papers on Mansell’s desk himself, quickly sorting out one perilous-looking pile into two much neater ones.

‘He’s still not quite learnt what paperclips are for,’ Kent says, flashing a reassuring smile. ‘You could send him on a course. Get him out of our hair for a while.’

‘That’ll just be more paperwork,’ Chandler replies, half-absentmindedly, although a smile catches up with him.

They stand more or less side by side for a few moments in comfortable silence; Chandler knows Kent’s not finished, that he’s thinking, but that’s a permanent condition with them and he just waits. 

‘For someone who spends his day ordering me about, you think remarkably little of yourself,’ Kent says eventually, his tone gentle.

The words are supposed to make him think, Chandler knows. But he’s always known that to be the case, and he just turns to look at Kent, because he knows that he knows, too. He must have guessed long ago—or Miles told him. He’s always dropping hints. 

‘I thought I made myself clear, before,’ Kent continues, holding Chandler’s careful gaze. ‘But, in case it needs saying, I find your company much more preferable to that of my screaming flatmates.’

Chandler finds himself saying, ‘They can’t be screaming all the time,’ and he might even quirk a small shadow of a smile.

‘You’d think they’d heard that and were taking it as a challenge.’ Kent chuckles, aimlessly flipping the last loose page on Mansell’s desk back and forth. ‘Anyway, it’s a Friday and the only thing more reliable than their going out is our working a mugging.’ 

Chandler huffs; he’s had enough of those. They could really do with a change of pace, although hoping for a more severe wave of crime is probably something that’s frowned upon. Though Chandler’s never met a policeman who’s overjoyed when there’s nothing on.

‘I’ll even help you with that expense report, if you insist on getting it done,’ Kent says, sliding another sideways glance towards Chandler with a smile. ‘Though you’ll have to fill me in on what excuses you’ve used for Ed in the past.’

A laugh almost makes its way out of Chandler’s throat, and of course Kent sees its possibility. He nudges Chandler’s elbow with his own.

‘We can sort through our receipts.’

Kent says it in a way that’s supposed to be enticing, as if that’s the sort of activity that Chandler looks forward to at the end of a long day. It’s only a few relations removed from how you might ask a dog if he’d like to go on an evening walk and that’s the tenuous connection that makes Chandler break into a long-overdue proper smile. It’s ridiculous but Kent grins back at him, eyes dancing with something that on anyone else Chandler would read as victory. On him, though, and through the dim light of the station, it’s more like pleasure.

Kent’s smile widens. ‘I’ll see you at yours, then.’ 

Chandler sighs through his nose. ‘If you insist.’

‘I do.’

* 

‘You must think the rest of us are tearaways.’

‘Well, not Miles, not exactly. And not Riley, either.’

‘Oh, thanks for lumping me in with Mansell.’

Kent sounds about as affronted as he should be, faced with that prospect, but he smiles at Chandler from across the flat. Somehow imagining him in his space is much more difficult than having him there, though Chandler suspects that’s something that’ll fade with time. He’s half-amazed that he’s thinking on a timescale that wide when before he was trying not to give the prospect much thought at all, but for some reason he’s letting Kent potter around in his kitchen like he’s always lived there and it’s not putting him on edge. Well, not too much. He supposes that it always will, a little.

Then again, a lot of things do, and one more’s not too difficult to live with.

‘I find that the longer you work in CID,’ Kent says, pouring milk into one of the two mugs he’s lined up on the counter, ‘the more you become a quiet evenings in sort of person.’

Chandler lets out a singular laugh. ‘Mansell must be a new hire, then.’

‘Mansell’s an exception,’ Kent says, and although he’s turned away from him Chandler can still pick out the smile. ‘And certifiably mental.’

They all are, though, in a way. Aren’t they? You wouldn’t do this job if you weren’t. You have to be a little unstable to be willing. God knows he is. He’s never been entirely sure about Kent—because this is a question he’s pondered before, when he’s been trying to figure out if the rest of them are likely to be as upside-down as he feels—but he must have something about him. Chandler can’t forget it, after all. They’re all scarred from the job, in their own ways, but it’s Kent’s that haunt him the most. Miles’ stabbing bothers him, too, but there’s something about that being a spur of the moment thing and Kent being targeted, Kent being shadowed until he was alone, Kent attacked to inflict pain and suffering but not to risk death. On his own.

One’s not better than the other, Chandler can’t pit them against one another, but there’s a difference, isn’t there? At the time he’d chased the feeling away, sluiced the taste out of his mouth with whichever spirit was closest. But he’s always cared. About the both of them. All of them. That’s why it’s so difficult to cope.

Thinking back, Kent hadn't looked well, either. Chandler hadn't realised at the time, he'd been soaked in vodka whenever he had the chance, but Kent had been pale, ashen, skittish. Wan. Whey-faced. Spooked. He hadn’t been ready, had he? He’d have never passed any of the back to work requirements, but they hadn’t strictly been on the job, had they? Chandler shouldn’t have called him back in. He should have given him time. He never should have taken him with him back to that pub, but he had, because he'd wanted him with him. That... that had been cruel. He hadn't even realised. He hadn’t thought that far, he’d only been thinking about the case, the Krays, the Brooks, the next step. He should have thought about his team. He should have thought about Kent. Emerson. He should have thought about something other than—

'Stop thinking.' 

Kent’s voice takes him by surprise; his mind skids to an ungainly stop and it takes him a moment to realise he should be taking that cup of tea from Kent’s outstretched hand.

'How—?'

'My auntie's a psychic,’ Kent says with a significant look and a smile when Chandler recovers enough to rolls his eyes. 'And I know you.'

That doesn’t explain much, because Chandler’s not entirely sure he knows himself very well any more, and a corner of his concerned look returns.

Kent smiles and says, ‘You had the face on,’ as if that explains everything.

Chandler thinks back to Miles and that particular characterization of his face. ‘An ever so slightly disgusted one?’

‘What? No.’ Kent shakes his head as he sits down, although it does mellow into something more acquiescent. ‘Though I know that one, too.’

There’s something heavy-hearted about those words, something deep-seated. As if he’s been trying to fight it off for years and he’s never managed and it’s worn him out. Chandler can’t remember who he’s turned it on, or when, but he must have looked at them all like that once or twice. More than that, probably. He knows he’s got tendencies. He lashes out. Not as violently as some, but he does. Kent looks as if he knows.

Chandler swallows a too-hot sip of tea and chases the burn with, ‘You don’t cause it.’

‘What?’

Kent honestly does look confused, half-obscured by his own mug. Chandler can’t blame him, because it’s not strictly the truth and he’s only good at lying about certain things.

‘That face,’ he tries, although that’s not much of an explanation and he’s not sure he can offer anything better.

‘Nice try.’ 

It’s Chandler’s turn to shoot Kent a quizzical look.

‘I know I do, sometimes.’ Kent smiles, small and apologetic. ‘I try not to.’

Chandler has to smile at that, equally penitent for the both of them. ‘Comes with the job, really, doesn’t it?’

‘A bit.’

There’s a lot of things that come with the job—baggage, Chandler supposes, would be the normal word for it—but Kent somehow manages to make them seem like faraway things, minuscule in the distance, even when they’re speaking of them specifically. _A bit_ is an understatement, because Kent’s had to tell him they’ve got another body, that the DNA’s inconclusive, that they’ve got no prints on file and, when he’s got a minute, could he give the Superintendent a call? He’s put _that face_ on Chandler’s features more often than either of them can count. Though, when he thinks about it, Chandler’s not sure if it matters.

‘I appreciate it, though,’ he says, words quiet. ‘You, trying.’

(Chandler has a creeping feeling that he’s trying to say that he appreciates Kent, as a whole, but he can’t get the words out in that order.)

(And aren’t they a little past appreciation at this point?)

‘Just for the record,’ Chandler adds, feeling an urge to fill the silence with more truths he once thought he should keep to himself.

Kent looks towards his knees, the mug he’s balancing with one hand, and murmurs, ‘It’s difficult for me not to.’

Chandler doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to say to that. He vaguely registers that there’s a warm feeling in his chest, something equal parts grateful and flattered, but he’s got no idea how to put that into words. Instead he musters up the courage to nudge the back of Kent’s hand with a bent knuckle and meets his quietly inquisitive look with a tentative smile that’s supposed to be reassuring for the both of them. Chandler can’t really tell who needs it more but as Kent uncurls the loose fist Chandler dares to press his lithe fingers, his knuckles; he doesn’t know where he’s going with it but from the look on Kent’s face Chandler’s willing to guess he doesn’t need to. His skin’s a little too warm from handling the kettle, the mugs blanched with boiling water; for a moment Chandler’s fascinated, although he doesn’t know why, and he’s almost gutted when his phone rings just as Kent turns and presses his palm against Chandler’s.

‘Sorry,’ he says, getting up and drawing his hand back.

Kent smiles up at him. ‘What for?’

_A lot of things_ is the answer that comes to mind but Chandler can’t ignore his phone; he just doesn’t do that sort of thing. He has a creeping feeling that Kent wasn’t particularly looking for any answer, as well, but he’ll ponder that concept when he’s next got time. Which all depends on who and where this call’s coming from.

‘DI Chandler, Whitechapel CID,’ he says, as natural as a mnemonic, when the device is at his ear.

‘Sir.’ It’s the voice of the night duty sergeant; Chandler’s had enough dealings with him to know his voice even if, strictly speaking, he’s not entirely sure of the man’s name. ‘There’s been an incident at St Oswald’s, the churchyard.’

Chandler doesn’t hold back the sigh. ‘Has DS Miles been informed?’

‘No, sir, not yet.’ 

‘Let him know to go straight to the scene.’ He glances back towards Kent and tries to feel guilty; the feeling only half comes. ‘I’ll notify my other officers.’

‘Certainly, sir.’ 

Chandler nods at nothing in particular as he ends the call, the echoing click familiar.

‘Station?’ Kent asks, wasting no time in getting to his feet.

Chandler hums in assent, still looking at the illuminated screen of his phone until it dims of its own accord. ‘We’ve been called to a scene.’ 

‘What did I tell you? I’m just as good at this future-telling lark as my aunt.’ He smiles, and Chandler’s purposefully blank expression only makes him laugh gently. ‘Where is it this time?’ 

‘St Oswald’s.’ 

Kent nods, a half-acknowledgement. ‘Think I’ve walked past there once or twice.’

Chandler’s not surprised; he doesn’t know the exact address but he knows the general area. He has to, really, doesn’t he? It’s part of the job. Just like this is, the short notice and the sudden phone calls. He’s never been annoyed by them before, save for once or twice when it’s been three in the morning and he’s actually managed to get to sleep properly; he’s not entirely confident that he’s annoyed now, actually, but there’s a slight sense of loss, of stolen opportunity, lingering in his brain. He ponders it for a moment, letting the base of the mug burn into his palm until Kent takes it out of his hand and back towards the kitchen. Chandler looks at the phone encased in his fingers and sighs again, though for what for he’s not sure, and he goes in search of his suit jacket.

The work doesn’t wait, after all. And he can think and work at the same time.

When he returns Kent’s already stood at the door, typing something into his phone. He only half-watches his own fingers as Chandler shuts a door with a click and attracts his attention; either he’s a brilliant typist or he’s stopped caring about how autocorrect butchers his words, because Kent’s looking entirely in his direction as he approaches. 

‘There it is.’ Kent smothers a smile. ‘That face.’

Chandler attempts a rueful expression instead, but Kent leans up and presses a brief dry kiss to Chandler’s mouth and he doesn’t get much of a chance. He presses back a little belatedly and feels Kent’s fingers curl against his chest, twisting free and refastening the top button of his waistcoat in one smooth movement.

‘It’s probably warranted, though,’ he says as he leans away, pressing his palm against Chandler for a moment before turning to pull his own jacket into the crook of his arm. ‘I generally find that it is. But don’t tell the skipper I said that.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: 21 July 2014.
> 
> Thank you again for all your support, comments and kudos! Hope you all have a lovely weekend in the meantime. :)


	6. Chapter 6

‘Should be open-and-shut.’

‘You always say that.’

Miles huffs a single laugh at Chandler’s tone and moves a pile of papers away from the edge of Mansell’s desk so he can lean on the surface. Chandler’s already done the same to Riley’s desk and looks on with folded arms at his handiwork. It’s not much, but apparently it’s not the sort of case that needs much.

‘I don’t know why they’ve stuck us on this one, boss.’ Miles waves a perfunctory hand across the board. ‘No deaths to speak of. Not even close.’ 

‘Radcliff’s come down with some sort of lurgy,’ Riley explains from where she stands waiting for their temperamental printer to spit out some papers, ‘and it turns out his sergeant’s under investigation by internal affairs. None of their other officers are senior enough to head an investigation. The other fella, what’s his name—’

‘Baxter,’ Kent supplies, reaching for his tea.

‘Yeah, that’s him. He and his team have been seconded to organised crime.’

Miles grunts. ‘I suppose that’d do it.’

‘If we could concentrate on the task at hand, please,’ Chandler says, not entirely without impatience.

‘There’s not much that needs concentrating on, boss.’ Miles jabs a finger at each picture in turn. ‘He took a swing at him and it all kicked off.’

Chandler turns and fixes him with a disbelieving look. ‘I’m sure there’s a little more nuance to it than that.’

‘Yeah, well, at the end of the day, we’ve got our attacker. Not just our vic, for once. And we’ve even got CCTV, haven’t we?’

Kent nods, just on the periphery of Chandler’s vision. ‘Just isolating the footage now, skip.’

‘There you go, then,’ Miles says, pleased as punch. ‘Witnesses, CCTV, both parties in custody and statements from each of them. What more do you want?’

Something to get his teeth into would be nice, actually, but that doesn’t seem to be likely to happen any time soon. Chandler’ll take what he can get though, and because he is who he is, his paperwork will be impeccable. What he can make watertight, he’ll make watertight, even if some part of him says he only does it to prove to himself that he isn’t incompetent. Not really. (Only when it matters.)

‘Though, it does make me wonder…’

Miles trails off and this time he’s got Chandler’s attention. When he’s not interrupted he turns and tries a skeptical glance, daring Chandler to say something, but he doesn’t. If Miles has something to say that involves thought then Chandler would like to know, since the entire morning’s been an attempt to fit in as many ill-timed joking comments as possible.

‘He was rather keen. Like a rat up a drainpipe.’ Miles peers at the vicar’s name, written in Chandler’s neat capitals. ‘Probably standing at a window waiting for it to happen, judging from how quickly he rang us.’

‘Maybe he was cleaning the stained glass,’ Mansell suggests, covering the end of the phone with a hand despite the fact he’s on hold and they can all hear the soft, tinny musical score.

Riley scoffs. ‘Bollocks.’

‘She’s right,’ Ed adds from where he’s crouched peering at one of the photographs pinned to the bottom of the board. ‘You’ve got to be a specialist to tamper with those sorts of windows. Very delicate things.’

‘Right, well,’ Mansell says, overdoing the disappointment, ‘bang goes my theory, then.’

‘Bit of an odd time of night for it, too,’ Riley adds, reaching to borrow the closest stapler.

Kent shrugs from where he’s leant back in his chair. ‘Stranger things have happened.’

There’s some sort of loaded implication there—or maybe Chandler’s just oversensitive, it wouldn’t be the first time—and when Chandler turns to look at him there’s a smile playing on his face that’s a little too close to suggestive for comfort. Kent doesn’t mean it, obviously, he probably doesn’t even realise, but Chandler clears his throat anyway.

‘Either way, it’s immaterial,’ he says, trying to recover from meeting Kent’s eye. ‘What matters is that he called it in.’ 

Miles says, ‘Precisely,’ in a much darker manner than Chandler thinks is strictly necessary.

He turns and says, ‘I seem to remember a time when you were telling me off for reading too much into things, Miles.’

‘If you don’t mind me saying, sir—‘ There’s a theatrical pause, then: ‘Sod off.’

Chandler smiles. He really shouldn’t be allowing that, not really, but it’s Miles. It’s them. They taught him long ago that not everything in the murder investigation manual is gospel and a healthy amount of insubordination is good for morale. They never covered that at Hendon. (They never covered a lot of things at Hendon.)

‘The church,’ he says, peering at the photographs, the address. It’s odd, really; he’s never thought of churches having addresses, though they must have. ‘What is it, Norman?’

‘No. There’s only one of those left in London and that’s not it.’ Ed answers without tearing his eyes away from the photographs, tilting his head to one side absentmindedly. ‘Why, exactly?’

‘Just curious.’

‘I swear,’ Miles says, shaking his head between them. ‘You’re a repressed academic.’

Kent lets out a singular laugh from where he’s leant down to reach beneath the desk, pulling at a USB drive. ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’

‘It’s not. The only thing is, we’ve got one already.’

‘Ed’s the last academic I’d call repressed,’ Kent counters, getting to his feet and delivering the storage device to Miles’ outstretched hand.

It’s the sergeant’s turn to huff. ‘He’s the last person I’d call an academic.’

‘I can hear you all, you realise.’ Ed’s voice is level but Chandler can pick out a degree of amusement. ‘And I have publications to my name, which is more than any of you can say.’

Riley adds a half-chuckled, ‘True,’ looking conditionally impressed. Miles looks less so, although it’s clear he appreciates another sparring partner. Chandler sometimes thinks he survives on a healthy diet of tea and snark, and as much as his first instinct is to try and rein it in, he has to admit that it seems to be doing him good. Perhaps it’s a matter of better out than in. Miles would undoubtedly agree that keeping his wit in check would probably be detrimental to himself and others. 

Chandler thinks otherwise, but he knows how to keep his thoughts to himself.

‘Come on, Ed,’ Riley says, tapping the archivist’s shoulder as she hands Chandler the sheaf of papers he’d asked for earlier on; he only half remembers why, now. ‘Think we’ve got time for a cuppa while we wait for the forensics?’

‘You’ll have a very bitter cup of tea if you leave it brewing for that long,’ Miles says with a smile, although he waves them off nonetheless.

The two of them swoop out with Ed promising a fuller history of the most significant Norman interior of a chapel in London; Chandler almost wants to join them because maybe there could be something a little more in this one if only they took the initiative to find it, but that’s the sort of sudden flight of fancy that he’s taken to ignoring. Miles is right about one thing: they’ve got all the parts to this one, all they’re missing is the instructions, but intuition should be enough. It won’t take long to piece everything together.

They’ll have their end wrapped up in forty-eight hours, probably. Forensic support will be slow as usual, perhaps even more so due to the lack of fatality, but it should support any and all of their findings. There aren’t that many plot options for the scuffle, after all. They’re up to their eyes in witnesses.

‘I think I’ll take a leaf out of Riley’s book,’ Miles says after a moment, unhooking his crossed arms and standing a little straighter. 

‘Pun not intended, I assume.’

Miles chuckles. ‘You know what they say about assumptions.’

Chandler shakes his head slightly, a small smile overtaking his carefully blank expression, but as Miles makes to walk away he stops and settles his gaze on the vicar’s name again. Chandler can’t tell what’s so magnetic about it but there’s something in the determination of Miles’ dislike.

‘I’m not keen on him, you know.’ He narrows his eyes at the picture, as if that’ll squeeze out the truth. ‘Very holier than thou.’

‘Well, Miles… strictly speaking, he is holier than thou.’

Miles just turns, tuts at him, and walks away. Chandler chuckles to himself and pretends not to notice Mansell making another fuss, elbowing Kent in the ribs and mouthing ‘He’s joking, he’s fucking _joking_ ,’ again.

Kent does a rather good impression of being equally surprised.

*

Chandler had approached Kent’s desk at the end of the shift, the scent of Tiger Balm still fresh in his nose, and opened with the tentative suggestion of, ‘If you’re not doing anything else…’

Kent had just beamed and said, ‘Let me pop home first,’ and that was that. Even if Chandler’s heart did pound a little harder than usual in the aftermath; he doesn’t need the adrenaline with Kent, really, does he, but he knows his nervous system isn’t the most reliable. It does what it wants.

When they do make it back to his flat, Chandler has to look up the password to his Wi-Fi; he’s had no reason to input it, not in the five or six years since he’d set it up. For a moment he’d wondered how Kent had figured out which was his network without asking, but Kent had just smiled and said that it was the only one with a strong signal and without a sarky name. A-plus detective work, if he says so himself. Chandler can’t fault him for that. 

He finds the details written neatly on a folded page tucked in the router’s immaculate, never-opened manual; it’s easier just to hand that over than it is to read out the numbers. He knows from first-hand experience that doing that with any member of his team is just about as useful as reading out account numbers to telephone operators. He’s got more use out of acrophonic alphabets on the phone with his bank than he has in any line of police work and digits aren’t much better.

‘Here,’ Chandler says as he walks back to where Kent’s taken to parking himself when he comes round. ‘It should be labelled.’

Kent takes the paper from Chandler’s outstretched hand and the gentle approach from his fingers isn’t entirely matched by his joking, ‘Of course it will.’ Chandler used to mind comments like that, when he’d first joined up and even among policemen his penchant for neatness wasn’t universal, but Miles’ own version of exposure therapy had quickly put paid to that. What makes him stop and think this time isn’t the humour in Kent’s voice; it’s the way he stops and reads the page for a moment too long for him just to be reading, and when he does turn to type in the passcode, a slow, significant smile’s making its way across his face.

‘What?’ Chandler asks, because he has to, because he can’t stop himself and the question seeps out of its own accord.

Kent looks up at him for a moment, smiles properly, then returns to his typing. ‘It’s your DOB.’

Then Chandler had asked ‘Tea?’, Kent had said, ‘Please,’ and Chandler forgot whether he meant the drink or the meal. 

* 

Chandler doesn’t usually make a habit of taking notice of what people have on their computer screens from the vantage point of their shoulders, but the sheer chaos of the webpage Kent’s looking at catches his eye. It’s when he takes a couple of steps closer and deciphers some sort of method in the terrible design that he recognises the name at the top of the page: St Oswald’s. And he’d be willing to bet that the man in the dog collar is Gregory Harding, rector and good samaritan. 

‘You’re looking him up?’ he asks, nonplussed. He really hadn’t thought Miles was that serious.

Kent quirks a smile, leaning back to look at him for a moment. ‘You aren’t my only superior officer.’ 

‘That may be, but Miles can pursue his own leads.’

‘Oh, it’s not really a lead. Just background.’ He watches Chandler for a long moment then shifts back to peering at the laptop screen, shrugging a single shoulder.  ‘Anyway, I said I didn’t mind. One of his boys has a football match tonight.’ He pauses and Chandler’s thoughts must somehow escape his head again because Kent twists an arm and pats his elbow, gently pushing him back into motion. ‘Think of it as a favour. He can buy my round next time we’re down the pub.’

Chandler’s not entirely sure, because no matter what Miles says he knows he’s perfectly capable of using a computer and internet research isn’t too many steps beyond that. Plus the man’s got a skeptical streak a mile wide that would solve the problem of dubious sources quite neatly. But then again, it might seem strange if he didn’t delegate his suspicions to his officers; Chandler might have a sergeant for a reason, buts Miles has his constables for a reason, too.

You wouldn’t have guessed it, though, from the way they all carry on.

Chandler pours himself a glass of scotch—Miles’ most recent gift, and Chandler’s somehow managed to time himself so that between Christmas and his birthday he just about finishes the previous bottle as another arrives—and glances back. He’s not entirely sure what for, only that he had the urge and for some reason didn’t have a reason why he shouldn’t at hand, and for a moment he just watches the line of Kent’s neck as he scrolls through webpages, the blue-tinged light from the screen illuminating his features as he swallows. Then Kent pauses and looks up himself, his gaze catching in Chandler’s. 

A small smile plays on his mouth but Chandler feels a little caught out regardless. He saves the moment (or, at least, hopes he does) by gesturing with a second glass, a silent question.

‘Best not,’ Kent says, shaking his head slightly. ‘I’ve got to drive back.’

Chandler nods and tries to ignore the pang of disappointment that comes with the casual conclusion. He wouldn’t know what to do with it if he did dwell on it. 

He knows Kent won’t push for it but Chandler won’t ask, either. Not yet. He’s not got the words. He’s only half sure he’s got the feeling because it’s been years since he’s felt the impulse and even then it had never appeared as quickly as this, as fully formed. He’d had to talk himself into trying it, trying to accommodate someone else in his bed. It always takes some getting used to, he supposes, but more than once he’s accepted Kent’s parting kiss and wondered what it’d be like to experience that with no actual parting. What it would be like to fall asleep counting Kent’s breaths under his hand. Knowing whether or not Kent talks in his sleep.

But he won’t ask. Not yet. That’s something he’s got to work up to.

Kent doesn’t ask but Chandler flicks the kettle on anyway and retrieves a mug. Kent’s not one to refuse a cup of tea when it’s offered—Chandler’s seen him accept a very badly brewed one from Mansell on one of his morning after the night befores, and even manage to drink about a quarter of it before giving the lot up as a lost cause. Chandler reckons it probably has something to do with time spent in uniform, because by his calculation Kent must have spent more time there than he did (they’re both relatively young for their stations, he knows, but only one of them’s a fast-tracker and it’s not Kent who bore the brunt of Miles’ scorn for that). It still surprises him that it’s something he’s thought about.

He’s finding that sometimes, _sometimes_ , he can’t help it. And he’s used to not being able to bat away his thoughts, to feel a subject of his mind rather than its master. But this—these meanderings—they’re an allowance, something that Chandler wants to do, when he can. It’s not a compulsion, but the idea of Kent persists. The idea of them, their past and their future as well as their present. 

Chandler finishes off the tea and rinses the teaspoon before, with a drink in each hand, making his way back to where Kent’s sat. He looks surprisingly natural curled on on Chandler’s sofa. The furniture almost looks as if it welcomes being used properly for once. 

‘Here,’ Chandler says, offering the cup of tea still standing.

Kent glances up first at his face, then at the mug. ‘Oh, thanks.’

Chandler can’t tell if the way their fingers brush on the handover is accidental or not. He’s not sure it matters, but he’d still like to be able to tell. He’s used to avoiding all unnecessary contact but Kent had reached for the ceramic, slotted his fingers between Chandler’s, and amidst the transfer of weight and control, Chandler hadn’t felt the immediate urge to withdraw. Probably because if he had, Kent and a great deal of the sofa would be covered in scalding tea by now, but it still makes him think.

He takes a sip of his drink, focusing on the burn in his throat for a moment, then says, ‘Tell me about him.’

‘What?’

Chandler fights back a smile; it’s almost as if the arrival of tea’s absolutely distracted Kent from anything else of note. 

‘The vicar.' 

Kent watches him sit down next to him with a slightly wary look. ‘I thought you weren’t bothered.’

‘Strictly speaking,’ Chandler says as he settles stiffly against the cushions. ‘I’m supposed to take heed of what my sergeant says.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Kent says, smiling in such a way that it manages to make the sarcasm soft.

‘And I know you.’ Chandler says it as if it’s always been true, but it’s also a little bit of a realisation. ‘You wouldn’t do it if you didn’t think Miles has a point.’

‘Yes,’ Kent says with a little more force than usual—mock affronted, though only slightly. ‘I would have.’

‘Fine, you would have,’ Chandler admits, though with a surge of courage he adds, ‘but perhaps not while sat in my living room.' 

Kent murmurs, ‘You’ve got me there,’ into his tea and pointedly doesn’t move his knee from where it’s pressing against Chandler’s.

But he doesn’t mind and Chandler’s careful not to jostle the laptop too wildly when he nudges back. ‘So. Fill me in.’

He can’t tell if it’s wariness or amazement in Kent’s eyes as he regards him for a moment, holding his gaze. Either way it doesn’t really matter, because Kent lowers the cup of tea from his mouth and spreads his free hand across the keyboard, pressing a combination of keys that makes the window he’d had up before reappear. He shifts—exceedingly carefully—until he’s sat at Chandler’s side, leaning into him ever so slightly, and they can both see the screen.

‘I don’t have remote access to Met files,’ Kent begins, glancing back at him for a split second, ‘so it’s only what you’d be able to find as a civilian.’

‘It’s a start.’

‘We’re in luck, in a way. He’s been quite prominent.’

‘In what way, exactly?’

(Chandler can’t help but be intrigued. He’d been a little intrigued when Miles had mentioned it, actually, because his instinct’s not to be trifled with but one of them has to keep the budget in mind. They can’t follow up every little hunch. Prioritization is the new buzzword, after all.)

‘Well, I know Skip would prefer it if I said a country-wide fraud ring making mad amounts of money from staged muggings, but it’s nothing as interesting as that.’ He clicks through a few tabs on his browser until he lands on the one he’s looking for. ‘From the bio on St Oswald’s website—‘

‘I didn’t expect it to have one, to be honest.’ 

‘Everything has, these days.’ Kent huffs out a small disbelieving laugh. ‘I’m pretty sure there’s a Twitter handle for a sculpture of a dog and a pot in Southwark.’

‘You don’t think much of it, then.’

Kent shrugs, skimming his fingers across the laptop’s trackpad and scanning the page of text. ‘It’s… well, it’s useful, but only to an extent. Whoever’s responsible for site maintenance isn’t about to post that their new vicar’s actually so bent he sleeps in a circular bed. And, even as far as background goes… everyone lies on their CV.’

‘I didn’t,’ Chandler says, frowning. 

Kent doesn’t even look up. ‘Well, you’re you, aren’t you?’

Chandler doesn’t have an answer for that—not one that the question doesn’t already supply, anyway.

‘Either way, it’s all rather standard,’ Kent says, smothering a grin. ‘As far as I can tell. I never said I was an expert in ecclesiastical matters.’

‘I’ll have to check your CV.’

Kent looks at him with an unchecked laugh, grinning; he looks so much younger that way, but it strikes something affectionate in Chandler now instead of some ersatz sense of guilt. And no matter how much Mansell fusses, Kent just smiles at their shared humour, accepts it as something that’s always been there if one cares to look and coax it out. It’s a good thing, too, because Chandler doesn’t think he’d be able to get through another bout of someone drawing attention to it without going a rather unflattering shade of red.

‘Harding’s got about a hundred qualifications after his name,’ Kent says, turning back to the screen and indicating a line of text as he raises the mug in his other hand to his mouth. ‘Imagine that on a letterhead.’

Chandler finds the sequence of letters Kent’s referring to and has an odd urge to let out a long whistle, something that previously he’s only ever associated with Mansell; it’s probably the absurdity of it all plus the scotch, which he already knows has dubious effects on his cognition. 

‘Where’d he get all of those?’

‘Miles would love it if he picked them up off the side of the road, I suppose,‘ Kent mutters with a chuckle. ‘He read Theology at Oxford, then was a research fellow on some project to do with ethics and philosophy headed by his old tutor, one Professor Stuart Reynell. That lasted a few years, then all of a sudden he’s ordained and a church warden in a local parish, then he starts popping up as rector.’

‘Popping up?’ Chandler asks, frowning and leaning a little closer. (As if that’ll aid comprehension.)

‘Well, I don’t know how their promotion process works, or even if there is one. Then again, I can barely follow the Met’s, so…’

‘Ed might know,’ Chandler suggests.

‘I’ll be more surprised when there’s something he doesn’t know something about,’ Kent replies, and Chandler can’t tell whether or not the way he presses their shoulders together is intentional.

Nevertheless, Chandler huffs out a quiet laugh, a smile playing on his lips. ‘Where was Harding first a rector?’

‘Chipping Norton.’ The answer’s quick and sure; the gentle contact remains constant as Kent expands on his answer. ‘Worked in a handful of parishes since then. A few villages around Oxford, Banbury, the odd place in Hertfordshire, then Cambridge. Once or twice in London but never for very long—those were assistant positions, it looks like.’

Chandler frowns, rolling his drink about his his tongue for a moment. ‘Quite a lot of moves for a someone whose position’s supposed to be based on a connection with the community.’

‘Some of these places must only have about ten families, though,’ Kent counters. ‘It wouldn’t take long to get to know all of them. First name basis, and all that.’

He sounds vaguely put off by the idea. Chandler watches him take another gulp of tea and reins in a rogue urge to smile.

‘Have you never lived in the country?’ he asks.

‘Not countryside like this.’

Kent says it as an offhand aside, coupled with a shrug, but Chandler watches the side of his face and wonders. He knows what he knows and he’d been interested enough before, but he can’t seem to find an excuse for asking more. He’d like to but he’s used to whipping out his warrant card for that sort of thing. He’s got no idea how to approach it when the desired subject is sat in his sitting room, drinking tea out of one of his mugs, and has somehow maneuvered it so that they’re sharing the weight of his overheating laptop. 

(He doesn’t do casual. And yet…)

Instead of asking, Chandler polishes off the rest of his drink and leans to place the empty glass on the edge of his coffee table. ‘Did he leave any of his posts under a cloud?’

Kent turns to him with a crooked smile. ‘It’s not about to say here, is it?’

Chandler’s not sure if he’s supposed to feel reproached, but he does—a bit.‘I suppose not.’

‘I had a nose about on some sites of local newspapers, though,’ Kent adds, his tone lighter, encouraging; not an entirely useless idea, then. ‘Most of them have terrible navigation, especially for decades-old articles. There’s not much. I’d probably have better luck with paper archives, but Miles hasn’t bribed me enough for that.’

Kent’s tone is so casual that Chandler almost asks what would be a suitable bribe, just for future reference. He guesses it’d probably have something to do with espresso but he doesn’t contemplate it for long. Just as he looks back Kent switches whatever page he’d had up and the light cast on his face changes. He suddenly looked pallid, ashen-faced by the extremity of light, and for a moment he looks just as he had when Chandler had accused him of taking a much more literal backhander. He’d lost all the colour in his face then, too, and not even the weight of Kent’s arm resting on Chandler’s leg can separate the images properly.

‘Seems to court the local media.’

(His voice isn’t the same as that time—Chandler hopes it never will be. He’d never wanted to hear it in the first place.' 

Chandler clears his throat, then suggests, ‘News seems to follow him around, you mean?’

‘Again, Miles would be thrilled, but no.’ Then Kent smiles, and it’s nothing like two years ago. ‘Just seems to like being a bit of a familiar face, you know? Always popping up, weighing in. Bit of a chum of some of the reporters. Always involved—you know the type. Probably something to do with community spirit.’

‘An activist, then.’

‘Yeah,’ Kent says with a shrug. He’s starting to sound a little like Miles; he generally views excessive do-gooders with a modicum of suspicion. ‘Makes a point of taking an interest.’

Chandler nods at nothing in particular. ‘Just the sort of man who’d take it upon himself to report a mugging _in medias res_.’

‘Miles will be disappointed.’

Chandler chuckles at Kent’s conciliatory tone and meets his half grin with a smile of his own. The sickly wave of realisation recedes; it may be the same face that’s looking at him now but it’s not the same expression. There’s no horror in him anymore. Or, perhaps, there is—there’s horror in them all—but it’s somewhere else. Chandler can kid himself for the time being, and he’s grappling with newer, more unfamiliar questions in the stretch of the moment.

He’s never been particularly good with spontaneous touch—he’s never sure what suits when, and when he thinks he’s figured it out the moment’s generally passed—but this time when the thought seizes him he gives in. Carefully, of course, but he gives in nonetheless; for once, perhaps, it won’t matter even if he gets it wrong. Or it will but not as much. (Maybe.)

Kent’s turned back to the information before him, and splays a palm across the keyboard to lock the screen before he leans forward and carefully maneuvers the machine to the coffee table.

‘Miles’ll have to have to be happy with that,’ he says, settling back with what is probably the closest he gets to an air of rebellion.

Chandler quirks another corner of a smile and he’s sure it must look a little scared, so it’s probably a good thing that Kent keeps his gaze forward as Chandler leans towards him.

(He makes himself do it, makes himself give in to something he’s trained himself to ignore, and he’s quite sure he hesitates for a split second when his no-nonsense head almost wins out over his foolish heart.)

‘Good work,’ he says, and it’s just like it always is save for the fact that it’s pressed against Kent’s skin now, half compliment and half kiss. Chandler can feel Kent’s twitching smile and the way he cants into him, towards him; for a moment Chandler would wager that he can feel him blush, the skin under his mouth warmer and rosier.

But he’s too close to check, really, and that’s Kent’s hand on his chest easing him back just enough to kiss him softly, properly. Somehow Chandler’s fingers come to rest in the crook of Kent’s bent elbow between the third and fourth press—or perhaps the fifth, he’s lost count, he generally does—and for a second he wonders if this is too much, if this is mingling their two worlds too closely, but Kent slides his hand to the side of Chandler’s neck and he finds he doesn’t really mind either way. Kent is brushing soft, shallow kisses across Chandler’s mouth just because he wants to and, in the comfortable blankness of Chandler’s mind, he knows there’s nothing wrong with that. 

The momentary distraction’s broken when Kent’s phone goes and he swears against Chandler’s mouth, half sighing. He leans over the arm of the sofa to check who it is. He doesn’t expend much effort in circumventing Chandler’s shoulder so instead presses him back against the cushions in order to clear a path. Chandler’s hands take the cup of tea from him almost automatically, and even the sharp pressure of Kent’s elbow against his side is welcome. The thought’s a little disconcerting, even after all of that—or maybe because of that—and Chandler absent-mindedly takes a sip from Kent’s tea.

‘Looks like I’m being summoned,’ Kent says, resting his chin on Chandler’s shoulder.

He must go unnaturally still at that suggestion, because Kent chuckles and sits back so he can look Chandler in the eye.

‘Not from the station,’ he says, reading Chandler’s mind like the thought’s plastered across his forehead. ‘Nothing’s come through from there yet, don’t get your hopes up.’

Chandler wonders whether or not he is actually that readable, or if it’s just Kent who’s learnt his language. Either way it doesn’t change the fact that he suspects he’s looking uncharacteristically mollified. Kent pushes away from the cushions and gets to his feet, leaving Chandler watching him from the crook of the arm of the sofa, tea still in hand. Chandler’s always surprised how… bereft he feels when Kent removes their contact, especially those touches which extend beyond a brush of fingers. He’d never expected to appreciate such a scale of physical affection—he’d come to expect only grudging acceptance from himself, but as Kent searches the room for his things and slips his phone into a pocket Chandler misses his warmth.

He takes another sip of the tea and forgets to wonder why.

‘Dare I ask where it was from, then?’ Chandler asks, carefully, for even he’s still unsure if he wants to know the answer.

‘It’s Tess’s birthday on Tuesday but tonight’s the only day she’s not got a shift on.’

That’s explanation enough; he’s heard snippets of things about each of Kent’s flatmates over the time they’ve spent together, bits and pieces of information from anecdotes as Kent feels them fit to mention, and Tess is the one who sounds most like Mansell. Chandler hadn’t thought there’d be room in the world as a whole for more of his type, let alone in their world, but apparently she gets away with it just like Mansell does. If they ever met, the world would probably implode. Or, somehow, the Met would be saddled with a massive bill for champagne. Because Mansell’s not an idiot (as much as he tries to convince them he is) and by putting their two heads together they’d probably figure out how to manage it. 

The thought must be obvious because Kent grins at him from where he’s pulling a jumper over his t-shirt and returns to press a soft kiss to the corner of Chandler’s mouth, one that he presses back with a small smile.

‘Don’t they wonder where you are?’ Chandler asks, tilting his head for another kiss.

‘I wouldn’t worry,’ Kent says with a softer smile as he stands. ‘They’re used to me working late for odd reasons.’

‘You’re not exactly working, though.’

‘No.’ The smile widens. ‘I’m not.’

Chandler flushes hot and leans forward to place the mug on the coffee table next to his own empty glass, his other hand reaching to tug at the back of his collar. Kent had said that with such unguarded affection.

‘Anyway, it can’t be worse than last year.’

Chandler’s almost afraid to ask, but he does anyway, if only to distract himself. ‘Do I want to know?’

‘Someone had the brilliant idea to start a Never Mind the Buzzcocks drinking game at half past two in the morning. It involved tequila—I didn’t even know we _had_ tequila.’ Kent pulls a face, wrinkling his nose in that way he does when it’s Mansell’s turn to make tea. ‘I think I may have investigated my own noise complaint.’ He catches sight of Chandler’s horrified look and laughs. ‘It was a slow week.’

They’ve had enough of those to last them until next year. It’s not that the investigating they do get done is boring, because occasionally they will get a bit of a brainteaser, something that Ed can actually make suggestions on. But most of the time they expend more effort on the paperwork than they do on what they’re trained to do because, if Chandler’s honest, most criminals are idiots. Even the ones that think they’ve pulled the wool over their eyes have done no such thing. And even if Chandler clears all of these up, puts every perp on the stand and behind bars, he still hasn’t proven himself. He hasn’t reversed anything. He’s still a bit of a failure where it matters.

‘Are you going to be feeling rough in the morning?’ Chandler asks, sitting forward and leaning his elbows on his knees.

‘Probably.’ Kent smiles as he shrugs on his coat. ‘Don’t make any allowances.’ 

A chuckle pulls at the edge of Chandler’s mouth. ‘I’ll hold you to your word.’

‘I’m hoping you do.’

Chandler honestly doesn’t know what to do with the implication in that sentence, in the way it seems to reach far past what they’re talking about. In the way it’s a dare and a promise all in one. But Kent’s expression is warm and not malicious (has it ever been, towards him?) and the way he reaches to squeeze Chandler’s shoulder on his way out reminds him that, perhaps, specificity isn’t the only way. 

And if Kent just reaffirmed every promise he’d made to him, then that would explain the warm flush in Chandler’s face.

* 

In a way, Chandler has to admit that Tess has a good sense of timing. Kent had been worse for wear the next morning, and even still tender that evening, burying his head into the crook of Chandler’s neck in a brief embrace in the car park just outside the range of the station CCTV. But, if he is going to be nursing a hangover for forty-eight hours (maybe they’ve started taking him by surprise, too), then this is the time to do it. Miles had been right—everything they needed to finish off their part in the St Oswalds’ case was already in their hands and only needed passing on to CPS. Chandler had spent the rest of the shift periodically refreshing his inbox and willing the phone to ring.

It doesn’t—probably because it never does, not when he wants it to—but Riley does appear from what was supposed to be a coffee run with no coffee and an A4 file that has Chandler squinting through his office windows. It’s probably only another official note to say that one of their cases is coming to court soon. If they’re very unlucky it’s a call for another audit or another query as to why, exactly, the personnel brought in to organise, collate, and digitise the police archives has just added another ten boxes at the expense of the Met’s budget.

Chandler’s already got the first resigned sigh out the way and put together half of a new excuse when Riley looks up from where she’s been standing at the side of her desk, skim-reading the documentation, and announces, 'Have a butcher's at this.'

‘If it’s not coffee, I’m not bothered,’ Kent mutters, his tone carrying only because Chandler’s too attuned to miss it, but he gets up from his seat anyway. 

‘What is it?’ Mansell asks, wandering closer to peer over her shoulder and drop biscuit crumbs on her blouse.

She tuts and brushes at her shoulder. ‘The anthropologist’s report for the Poplar remains.’

‘Oh, couldn’t have let us know, then?’

Riley rolls her eyes at Mansell’s overly affronted tone and turns a page. ‘I was checking if there was anything interesting in it.’

‘And is there?’ 

Mansell’s tone is distinctly dismissive, as if even his dogged optimism can’t convince him that they’ve got enough luck left for something to have come through, though there’s something about Riley’s expression that makes Chandler get to his feet and join them.

‘I’d say so,’ she says as Chandler approaches, stepping to one side so there’s room for him between the rest of them and the clutter of desks.

Miles huffs from where he’s stood, arms crossed. ‘Best cut to the chase,’ he says, ‘or my heart might go from the suspense.’

‘The ribcage of the deceased…’ Riley pauses as she scans the rest of the page, trailing an extended finger along the lines of text, ‘bears damage evidence that would not be inconsistent with the modifications made in autopsy.’

There’s a sudden hush of silence that settles among them; none of them need further elaboration to know what the implication means. They may have put the remains to one side (for lack of a better phrase) in order to clear up other, smaller cases, but Chandler hasn’t forgotten that he’d been taken off an active case to oversee this investigation. He’s been dreading this report in the quiet moments, when he forgets to think and the thought creeps up on him unawares, and he’d both hoped and feared it would be something like this.

Though how closely it’s managed to align with their other responsibilities is close to preternatural.

‘Are we still doing that swear jar thing?’ Mansell asks, the closest to cautious he’s ever sounded.

Kent shakes his head. ‘Not as far as I know.’ 

‘ _Shit_.’

Mansell says it with the sort of emphasis and relish that they all feel. He sounds a lot more like himself but somehow that’s not a comfort. Chandler can’t seem to decide whether or not meeting anyone’s eye is a good idea.

‘That’s not the sort of thing that just happens to show up, is it?’ Kent asks, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.

‘No,’ Riley says, separating two pages and indicating a line of text. ‘There’s quite a lot of force involved.’

Chandler can imagine, but he doesn’t want to; there’s no guarantee that means the thought won’t enter his head at one point or another. He’s sure there’s technical details somewhere—the likely amount of force, the size and weight necessary for an attacker, the angle, the weapon, any remnants of cleanup—and he’ll have to devour those instead, write them like rote lines under the photographs, each letter a curve that’ll have to be perfect. 

‘You’d have to want to.’ 

‘Precisely.’

‘Shit.’

Miles huffs. ‘Thank you, Mansell, for that greatly insightful contribution.’ 

‘Someone had to say it.’ He tuts. ‘It’s what you’re all thinking.’

‘Yeah, well, spread the responsibility this time,’ Miles says, peering over Riley’s other shoulder. ‘The rest of us might want a go.’

Chandler feels vaguely inclined, in his head. It’s as good a place to start as any, because nowhere’s a particularly great beginning. There’s too much to sift through and not enough all at once; there are too many whispers and questions compared to the concrete facts. He knows that well enough already from the Cartwright file; a skeleton’s not going to be offering up many more secrets any time soon. He can’t even tell them his name, and where does that leave them?

High and dry, clearly. Chandler swallows, his mouth suddenly parched with apprehension. There’s no manual for this, and very little protocol. The beginning, middle and end all blur together. They have to identify him, that’s really the only way they’ll get anywhere, but without any sort of reference point… All the previous owners of the property are accounted for, as are their occasional tenants, so how did he—Chandler’ll have to find a name, he can’t keep just calling him _him_ —end up in that garden, a foundation for paving? And why has it taken a decade for anyone to notice?

Chandler knows better than to try and chase away the mounting pressure behind his eyes; he can hold it at bay and that’s the best he’s got. A quiet falls over the group as Miles gets his hands on the papers to have a better look, and Chandler presses at the bridge of his nose, eyes shut for a moment just to try and stop the way the speckled tile floors are a close relation of those paving slabs.

Fingers brush the back of his hand; Chandler turns, an apology prepared, but it’s then he realises it’s only Kent and he’s leaving his hand there, not snatching away the touch, for a reason. It’s not anything that could strictly be called untoward—for anyone who’d catch sight of them it’d just be a snapshot of an accidental graze. But for Chandler the connection keeps him in the room, each small flex of knuckle a gentle reminder that he’s more than his mind, and he holds his hand still.

‘Kent?’

They both try not to jump.

Kent clears his throat, curling his fingers back into a fist. ‘Skip?’

‘Have a look in that file you’ve been hoarding for the boss and find the post-mortem,’ Miles asks, thankfully still peering at the papers in his hands. ‘Specifically the reports on the x-rays, if they’re there.’

The younger man glances between them both for a brief moment, expression close enough to blank for the mild shock to hide, but only Chandler notices. He doesn’t miss Miles’ veiled reference, either, but he knows it’s probably just an offhand comment to anyone who doesn’t know. Or perhaps he’s overly sensitive to suggestion. He always has been but this is a new venue for it and he doesn’t know which exits to cover yet.

Kent returns to his desk and heaves the box of files to the surface, pushing his keyboard out of the way with a corner. Chandler reroutes his attention to his other officers; the skin on the back of his hand prickles in a way that convinces him that his gaze would be obvious. But something about the scene before him is crisper, the words solid instead of swimming. Panic—its infantile relative, at least—subsides as Kent’s rustling encourages a sense of productivity, of decisive action.

‘Which of you still has the paperwork from the first time we looked at this?’ Miles asks to the room at large.

‘I do, I think, skip,’ Riley says, leaning over to reach for the document tray. 

‘Right, well, we’ll be needing that.’ Miles says, sparing a glance for Riley as she gives up on the stretching and circles around to the right side of her desk instead. ‘Setting up the whiteboards is always easier with photographs.’

Mansell shoves the rest of the biscuit into his mouth and says, ‘I’ll get on it.’

Chandler’s not entirely happy with the extent—or lack thereof—of professionalism in that half-garbled statement, but he can’t complain. Not really. No matter how rough they’d been when he’d arrived, there’s something heartening about the way Mansell quickly settles in to pin up the photos that Riley hands him, even leaving spaces to fill when the images don’t come out in the right order to correspond with the evidence catalog, or about the way Kent’s leafing through their papers as if the entire thing’s not actually a mystery and it’s only a matter of looking under ’s’ for the solution filed alphabetically.

If only.

The feeling only lasts a fraction of a second, perhaps a heartbeat and a half, before the low murmur of disquieted unease returns. There’s sense of a challenge looming just around a corner, ready to strike at any moment, of which they can’t quite estimate the power. And yet, at the same time, Chandler wants to look it square in the eye, peel away the layers of shadow until he’s staring at the ugly truth of it all.

He inclines his head in the sergeant’s direction. ‘You don’t think…?’

‘No need to sound so apprehensive, boss.’ If it was any other time, Miles would be chuckling. ‘I remember a time when you’d be frothing at the mouth at the very thought of getting your teeth into something like this.’

Chandler huffs. ‘These are _historic_ , Miles.’

‘Call UCOS in, then.’

‘What the hell do you do with your time off?’ Chandler’s distinctly losing that brief feeling of pride in his team. ‘That doesn’t _exist_.’

Miles lets out a short laugh as he flips a page. ‘The wife chooses what’s on telly.’

‘Right,’ Chandler says on an exhale, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘What are we going to do about this?’

‘What we always do, boss.’ Miles claps him on the shoulder. ‘Sort it out.’

Chandler’s not sure they’ve ever done that, not really, but he sighs and nods regardless. There’s not much else to do besides ignore it or panic, neither of which he’s willing to do. The one thing that he doesn’t mind the papers saying about him is that he’s gutsy. It’s when it all veers to one side and he ends up being reckless and irresponsible that it goes wrong. Though it’s all a matter of perspective, really. He’s still got his job, after all, and Miles is right. This is their job. They need to do it.

‘Anyway, I thought you liked the historical cases,’ Miles continues as he walks back to his desk, gesturing for the remainder of the photographs in Riley’s hands. ‘You got us a historian on the payroll, after all.’

Chandler shakes his head. ‘Copycat cases these are not.’

‘How d’you know?’

‘I’d have heard of them.’

‘Would you now?’ Miles raises an eyebrow at the page in front of him but it’s clear to everyone in the room that it’s meant for Chandler. ‘There’s only one fella who’d know better. You should go and ask him.’

* 

Chandler had planned on going down and briefing Ed on his own, but the rest of them decided otherwise. The narrow hallways mean they follow him like ducklings and by the time they file into the basement archive, there’s barely any room to swing a cat. Not that you’d try. You’d end up with scratches from the cat and a couple of bruises from where Ed would have smacked you with a hardback for doing such an imbecilic and inconveniencing thing.

‘It smells like an old joke shop down here,’ Riley says as she ducks further into the room, steadying a wobbly pile of books. 

‘And what’s that supposed to smell like?’ Mansell asks from where he’s leant against the doorframe.

‘The inside of a box of Christmas crackers.’

Mansell sighs, overly sarcastic. ‘Obviously.’

Chandler doesn’t think that it’s a particularly enlightening answer, seeing as that doesn’t seem like the sort of smell you’d want to encounter somewhere there’s a lot of paper involved, but he doesn’t say anything. He’d rather not draw attention to it, not when they’ve got something like this on their hands and their archivist has apparently upped and left. That’s troubling enough that he doesn’t even really register that Kent’s standing close to his back; or, well, it registers, but it’s not enough of a worry to impinge on the anxiety he’s already got. 

‘Where is Ed, anyway?’ Riley says, peering around the corner of the man in question’s desk. She plucks a sticky note from beside the keyboard and holds it under the closest light. ‘Oh, great. This says he’ll be picking up some new materials and won’t be back until three.’ 

‘Bollocks.’

‘On the contrary,’ Ed says, appearing from behind a bookshelf. ‘That was yesterday.’

Mansell hisses, ‘What d’you reckon the contrary of bollocks is?’ and gets a sharp jab to the rib from Riley’s elbow. 

Ed ignores them, sitting at his desk to pour over a dense book with a deteriorating spine. ‘Was there anything in particular you needed me for?’

‘For a change, yes,’ Miles says, overdoing the surprise but Ed just shoots a deprecating look over the top of his glasses. ‘It’s looking like we’ve got two of the same murder on our hands.’

‘A pattern?’ he asks, sounding marginally more interested.

‘Possibly.’ Miles is hedging his bets, Chandler can tell, but he still adds a sardonic, ‘Ring any bells?’

Ed’s unfazed. ‘Which cases in particular are you referencing?’

‘The remains we dug up in Poplar and the Cartwright file.’

‘Oh, _interesting_.’

Miles huffs as Riley stifles a smile. ‘If you could spare us the academia.’

‘I’m not sure there’s much for me to run through.’ Ed says, sounding honestly a little disheartened. Or perhaps that’s just the dip before the inevitable flurry of research. ‘If there was a serial offender with that sort of MO, then he’d rival the Ripper.’

Chandler doesn’t entirely appreciate the reminder. He had thought, for a brief, terrifying moment in the incident room, that they might be looking at another Ripper. Another one. Another abject failure, probably, but that doesn’t seem to rely on them investigating murders modelled on Jack’s, does it? Either way, it doesn’t quite fit. It’s certainly not the same timeline—he knows it by heart know, he doubts he’ll ever forget it—and the victims aren’t right, they don’t fit. The only similarity is the disemboweling, and even that’s not that close. Chandler doesn’t know whether to be relieved or not.

‘Yeah, well,’ Miles says, almost as disparaging as he was when he and Ed had first met, ‘I thought the same about those ones who melted victims their with caustic soda, but they aren’t exactly common knowledge.’

‘Ah, _la Saponificatrice di Correggio,_ ’ Ed says with a flourish. ‘You’re branching out.’

Miles tuts. ‘You would get the reference.’ 

Riley chimes in, laughing, from where she stands leaning against a bookshelf. ‘That was terrible Italian.’

‘You can’t do much better,’ Kent says with a chuckle.

Chandler puts how close Kent’s standing down to the limits of confined space and asks, ‘Shall we get back to the matter at hand?’

‘Certainly. There’s nothing that comes to mind immediately but I’m sure I can find something to start you off with.’ He turns around, searching one of them out, and his gaze rests on Kent. ‘You looked at Burke and Hare, didn’t you?’

(Chandler does his best not to go red at the way Ed has to look around him to catch Kent’s eye. Miles’ sly sliver of a smile doesn’t help, either.)

‘Weeks ago, so I’m a bit rusty, but I don’t think that’s quite what we’re looking for, Ed.’ He ruffles the back of his hair with a shrug. ‘For lack of a better phrase, they were delivering bodies, weren’t they? Sure, to anatomy schools, but they didn’t dissect anyone themselves. They left that to the students.’

‘It might be worth mentioning,’ Ed says, removing his glasses in that way he does when he thinks he’s about to make an indispensable point, ‘that, following his confession, Burke was dissected as recommended by the judge and—although that particular event was kept rather uncharacteristically private—the next day the body was exhibited in the university museum for members of the public?’

Chandler swallows. ‘And Hare?’

‘Not heard from again.’

The archive is strangely quiet, save for the fan Ed’s installed on one of the cleared shelves. The whirring fills their silence, echoes the creaking of their minds. Chandler can barely stand it.

‘Riley,’ he says, trying his best to stop his voice from snapping. ‘Go through the cases we’ve got on file. Ed, give her a hand, will you? There’s a lot to go through.’

The archivist’s eyes virtually light up.

‘Don’t forget,’ Miles warns, ‘you’re still a civilian.’

‘I wouldn’t worry, skip. I’ll keep him in line.’ Riley cuffs Ed affectionately round the shoulder with an arch look. ‘And no one in their right mind would say anyone in this room’s got a better eye for spotting something obscure that might be relevant.’

Ed beams.

‘Not that he’s in his right mind. Or his left.’ Miles looks between them both and shakes his head. ‘Don’t inflate his ego any more than you have to.’

Riley just scoffs.

‘Kent,’ Chandler says, looking over his shoulder to find him. ‘Go through everything we’ve done so far with the Cartwright file. Cross-reference with these two if and when you can, but otherwise just be ready to present anything relevant this afternoon.’

‘Yes, sir,’ is the immediate response. 

Although Chandler should know better, he does offer Kent a small smile before turning in his sergeant’s direction with a moderately more controlled expression.

‘Miles?’

Miles drops the cover of file on Buchan’s desk he’s been skimming. ‘Boss?’

‘We’re going to need to speak to this anthropologist.’

‘Oh, good. I’ve always preferred these reports in person,’ Miles says, slipping his hands into his pockets. ‘Saves on postage trying to get them to explain what the bloody hell they mean.’

He nods, as a sort of explanation, at the report that started it all, the crisp page of official typeface and the flourish of a signature at the bottom margin.

Chandler looks to the pages in his hands, brought down from the incident room out of some inexplicable need to have something in his grip, and decides on covering all their bases. They might as well, after all. There'll be enough dead time to fill while they wait, probably, so best get everything under way at once. 

‘Mansell,’ he asks, ‘could you take a copy of this to Llewelyn?’

The constable looks a little green for once, but takes the file nonetheless. 

‘See what she thinks,’ Chandler urges.

Mansell nods. ‘Sir.’

Chandler vaguely wonders if he should recommend Mansell taking something to be sick in with him, seeing as he can't imagine Llewellyn or Igor being very pleased at having mess that's not already supposed to be there, but Mansell's already turned on his heel and marched out with a stony expression. Bracing himself, clearly. Chandler almost feels sorry for him before remembering that he can pack away enough drink to make the rest of them feel sick and still come into work the next day. He'll be fine. Llewellyn might not even have a body out—though it’s probably a bit late for wishful thinking. 

Ed watches him turn out of the room with a slightly sympathetic expression; Riley nudges his arm with an elbow and shakes her head, nose wrinkled and expression reassuring. Kent hovers near the end of a bookshelf, re-reading a page of his own notes; it’s a page folded in four plucked from his jacket pocket, Chandler knows although he hadn’t seen, a reminder of where they last left off. Miles is watching them all, like he usually does, only this time it feels as if Miles is keeping an eye on him and just observing the others so Chandler clears his throat and straightens his already neat jacket.

‘We’ll speak later.’

Kent offers him a little nod, a shift in his countenance that only Chandler (and maybe Miles) would notice, and he knows that he’s not missed the veiled meaning. If there is any. Chandler’s not entirely sure, he never is, but if it’s there—if it’s crept in when he’s not noticed—then he’ll use it however he can.

‘Regroup at three.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: 24 July 2014. 
> 
> Thanks again for all the brilliant support and lovely comments! We're halfway through this fic now, so I hope you all continue to enjoy the story as we go along. :)


	7. Chapter 7

‘This is what we’ve got so far, boss.’

Riley sits opposite him, patting the pile of folders balanced on her lap. Kent’s settled in the other chair, his own pages of notes folded between his fingers. He’s flicking his pen against the side of his leg and Chandler almost says something, because the movement keeps catching in the corner of his eye, but Riley continues on regardless.

‘There are a couple of files we’re still waiting for, from a couple of the more far-flung divisions, but there are all the London-area ones.’

‘Anything in Whitechapel?’

‘Closest we’ve got in this lot is Spitalfields.’ She slides the file across his desk. ‘Late eighties.’

Chandler nods and reaches for the pile of paper and paperclips; this one looks relatively neat and he’s relieved when it’s clear that whoever last worked with the information left it in an impeccable state. That’s one thing going right, anyway.

‘I’ve put feelers out for anyone who worked the case,’ Riley continues, ‘but I can tell you now that the DCI’s dead and the man who was his second-in-command’s as good as; tracking down the uniforms might take a while. They’re probably all been through a handful of stations by now.’

Chandler nods; this is why he prefers cases that are either fresh or bone-dry.

‘The next is Hackney, mid nineties.’ Riley hands over another file, this one just as heavy as the last. ‘A young woman found in her flat with the same injuries, the same cause of death; the original team tried their best but they got nowhere with it.’

Kent tuts. ‘That’s generally the line that’s on file.’ 

Chandler’s mouth curls into a momentary smile as he settles the folder in the clear space of his desk, neatly lining up each corner before folding back the cover. The expression falls away as, for once, he’s not immediately disheartened by the state of the recordkeeping. It’s no less abysmal than usual, but something else gets him first this time.

The grainy photo—one her family probably supplied them with, where she’s laughing, not the morgue one—plants the seed of suggestion. Similar dark hair, dark eyes; sharp features with a brightness to them. He might have even suspected that they were related, but no, that couldn’t be true. That’s his mind making leaps and connections just because he wants to find them, not because they’re there. Just like this woman isn’t Morgan Lamb, she’s Heather Mitchell and she was a thirty-two year old accountant in Haggerston. It’s not her fault she reminds him of her. It’s a disservice.

Chandler shakes off the sense of unease, of being watched, and looks back in Riley’s direction.

‘I’ve done the same for anyone who worked that case,’ she says, picking up a smaller piece of paper through which Chandler can already see a list of names. ‘You’re in luck there; one of the DCIs, he’s still in the job, except he was a DS back then. I haven’t contacted him yet, sir, but if you wanted to speak with him then I can get his number.’

‘Good thinking,’ Chandler says, and each word he thinks makes him a little more sure he’s stood on solid ground. ‘I’m not sure if we’ll be going down an official or unofficial route yet as far as the interviews go, but I suppose it’s early days yet.’

The optimism sounds a little out of place in his voice—even Riley gives him a curious look that’s eventually slid in Kent’s direction. Chandler would love to be able to convince himself that Kent shows no reaction, or that he shoots back a look of his own that expresses disagreement, but Chandler’s never been able to win that argument.

Instead, Kent hands over his own set of files. ‘Then we’ve got the Poplar remains.’ 

‘I meant to ask,’ Riley interrupts, leaning forward slightly. ‘Why Alfred?’

Chandler had written it on the boards an hour beforehand; he remembers the time because he couldn’t get the ‘ _R’_ to sit right and he’d been hyperaware of Miles watching the back of his head, pausing only for a significant look at the clock. It had seemed like a good idea at the time—the moniker—but now he fusses with the angle of the stapler and finds his background vaguely embarrassing. 

‘This one didn’t seem like a John,’ he says, wincing as he realises the unintentional double meaning.

Riley smirks, though he knows it’s not unkindly. ‘Not even with a surname like Doe?’

‘I’ve met one too many people called that.’

Chandler doesn’t meant for his tone to be so clipped; Kent keeps his gaze fixed on his knees for a moment. He’d known Dr Cohen as well. He knows they’ve never called an unidentified victim John or Jane Doe since then. 

Even so, he recovers, and looks between Chandler and Riley with a shrug. ‘I did think it was an Eliot reference, at first…’

‘It is, if you want.’ Chandler tries to pitch normality, some enthusiasm into his tone. ‘Or King Alfred.’

Riley makes an extended noise of comprehension. ‘No wonder Ed was chuckling.’ 

‘Chronologically,’ Kent says, pushing on regardless, and Chandler’s grateful for his put-on professionalism. ‘The next one’s Cartwright. She’s the only Whitechapel vic at the moment, though from what I can tell from the pathologists’ reports they all come to similar conclusions. There are small differences here and there, in the details—’

Chandler can’t stop himself from adding. ‘The devil’s in the details.’

Kent catches the word he’s half thought, shuts his mouth and nods instead. ‘True, but although I’m not a pathologist I’ve read enough reports to think that the variances are of a more accidental nature.’

‘What you might call natural irregularities, sir,’ Riley adds, and although her voice is soft Chandler feels as if he’s just been told off.

The shine of the pot of Tiger Balm gleams in the corner of Chandler’s eye, neatly circular next to the face of his watch. The screen of his phone remains blank and his warrant card reminds him of nothing other than his own name.

‘Are these the only linked files we’ve found?’ he asks, keeping his gaze on the grain of the desk as he presses his fingers to his forehead, willing the headache away.

(It won’t work, it never works, but he’ll keep trying because he’s got a similar track record as a detective and he still comes into work every day.)

‘There are a couple of other cases on the database that look like they may be similar enough to place on the timeline but we won’t have access to those for a day or two. They’ll get what’s available electronically to us as soon as possible but the earliest you’ll get physical files will be tomorrow morning.’

Chandler watches Kent as he finishes that sentence, wonders if perhaps that’s supposed to be some sort of a suggestion. But neither of them are blatant enough to try anything on in front of Riley—not yet, anyway, and from the way she’s sheltering an almost-smile says that Miles has probably been dropping hints already—so he just nods and adjusts the corners on the pile of files before him, her face carefully folded between layers and layers of paper.

He should know better than to hope he’ll just forget about it, but hope he will.

*

Chandler had thought that, perhaps, it would be easier to clear his head when the flurry of activity in the incident room had died down. As usual, he’s wrong, but at least this time he’s not surprised. He’s almost glad for the noise in his head, the bit of it that sticks, because without it he’s got no idea what his mind would be doing, faced with that photograph pinned at the edge of the board.

‘There’s no use staying all night, sir.’

Chandler almost jumps; he reins himself in just in time. The voice is a familiar one, even for these hours, and as Chandler turns and unfolds his arms he’s pleased to know that some parts of his brain still function properly, because that is Kent standing there.

What he doesn’t expect is the flash of guilt that sears through him, the sudden conviction that it’s tremendously important that he doesn’t look back towards her picture. He doesn’t know what any of it means, exactly, but he’s already wondering when the best time is to pepper in an apology.

‘The files. Honestly, the earliest is first thing tomorrow,’ Kent explains in the stretching silence, shrugging with his hands already buried in his coat pockets. ‘Even then, we don’t have jurisdiction.’

Chandler knows that. Really, he does, he _knows_ that and he understands where Kent’s sympathetic tone’s coming from. They all find it frustrating. But it still apparently doesn’t stop Chandler from trying to use it as an excuse. He’s not even sure what he’s trying to excuse—because he usually doesn’t need a reason to stay behind after hours. It’s just something he does. So why does he feel as if he’s just been caught doing something he shouldn’t? He’s got every right to be here. He’s this investigation’s commanding officer. He’s in charge of his incident room.

But, as vehemently as he may try to say that to himself, he can’t quite say it to Kent’s face. He’s only concerned. Chandler knows that, too. He knows a lot of things, objectively speaking.

Neither of them say anything else. There’s no need to, because this is Chandler’s impasse, and he knows that Kent can see a way straight through it. He could walk away if he wanted to. He could pick up the pace and disappear over the horizon, and Chandler still doesn’t know what he’d do about it.

Kent sighs, and although Chandler can tell he’s fiddling with his keys, he nods towards the whiteboard at Chandler’s shoulder with forced naturalness.

‘Do you think of her often?’ 

Kent’s voice is careful but steady; the fidgeting in his hand is what gives him away. Chandler feels strangely still, as if his heart’s stopped. As if this is one of those things that should never be said out loud.

‘Morgan.’

He doesn’t need to explain. Chandler knew who Kent meant the first time the question had been posed; the only problem is that he’s still struggling for an answer.

It’s the best Chandler can do to take a deep breath and place his hands in his pockets. ‘Not even Miles noticed.’ 

Chandler had half expected him to. He usually notices, because he’s usually concerned, but this time Chandler thinks that he’s been sidetracked. It’s easier for Miles to forget about the baggage when he’s so busy being smug about his matchmaking ability. He gets all the fun and none of the problems. He wouldn’t notice because he’s moved on. Chandler’s thought he has, too, although when faced with a direct question, he’s not so sure anymore.

Kent’s face is carefully guarded when Chandler turns to catch his eye. That’s probably for the best. It offers protection to them both, doesn’t it?

‘Not as much,’ Chandler says, eventually, on a resigned exhale. ‘Not anymore.’

She’s wound into areas of his life. Bits he hadn’t realised she’d touched until months after she… Whenever he thinks about his father, how he’d be appalled at the state of the Ashes, how her father would probably think the same. When someone walks past him on the street wearing her perfume—he’s got no idea what it is except hers. He had no idea he knew it at all until after.

He is still fond of her, in an odd, distant way. He mourns what might have been. Not only—well, she was bright. She was good. She could have been great; probably greater than he’ll ever be. She had a lot of life ahead of her. Chandler’s stopped putting himself in it. He knew her for three days. He spoke to her a handful of times. Everything they had was maybes and as hateful as that thought once was he’s come to accept it.

There’s no guarantee she would have understood, either. About him—about what she hadn’t already noticed. But she was one of the few people Chandler had let himself think might. Maybe she already knew. Maybe she guessed. He’d never had a chance to ask. He’s not very good at letting go, but she would have made him do it. He knows that much. The psychoanalysis isn’t hard, even for a copper like him. She wasn’t his first death, after all. And she won’t be his last, although he’s doing his best to minimise the damage.

Chandler finds that it’s not himself he’s worried about anymore; he knows this feeling, he’s carried it around and fed it and watched it lurk in the corner of the room. He won’t balk, but Kent might, and something in Chandler’s chest aches at the thought of what his silence might imply. He doesn’t know what he wants to say yet, let alone _imply_ , but letting him come to his own conclusion can’t end well for either of them, can it? Chandler knows how this looks. How he’d looked, back them.

‘Em—’

‘No, it’s all right. I know.’ He says it like he means _I understand_. ‘She was someone to you.’

Those words shouldn’t be enough; that shouldn’t feel like an adequate explanation. They don’t mean much in themselves but they do, don’t they? She was someone. Chandler doesn’t have that many someones.

He doesn’t know what to say anymore. He rarely ever does, not in situations like these, but this time he’s really lost for words. He’s more than aware that he can’t say anything that would be helpful. He’ll either hurt himself or hurt Kent, and silence will do the same but it’s his only hope for lessening the sting. Guilt sits steady in his stomach and he’s not entirely sure why, because they both know the situation. They both knew when they began; Chandler just hadn’t thought about it. But thinking back now, Kent’s feelings hadn’t been down to the fact he’d been on duty for thirty-six hours, had they?

The fact that he’d done that, he’d said that and hissed _What did you say?_ with such venom. It had almost been a threat. He’d forgotten how Kent had recoiled. 

That had been an awful day for more than just him.

Chandler opens his mouth to say something, anything, an apology if he can work out how to say it without dragging everything back up again, but Kent’s expression is soft and solemn and sympathetic.

‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ he says, with a little nod, and that ends that particular conversation.

* 

Kent must have thought he’d want to be alone. It’s funny, really. Chandler had thought that too. He’s not so sure anymore. His empty flat shouts back his own loneliness and, for once, the fact that it’s not necessary. It hasn’t been for a while. He just hadn’t realised.

He finds a jumper of Kent’s draped across the back of his sofa; he’s got no idea how it got there, or why, or how he never really noticed before now. He should notice. He always notices, _always_ , yet when it comes to Kent he’s constantly missing something. He probably left it when they were called out, or if he was pestered home too quickly; it’s not a problem, and when he thinks that he expects it to feel like something veiled, like a concession made. But it doesn’t.

Because it’s really all right. 

Everything seems to be happening by accident, but it’s all right.

He scalds his hands washing out his mug and although the knit’s not particularly soft—the stitch is large, a bit clunky; looks homemade, and from what Chandler understands of Kent’s family, probably is—the wool is a relief against his smarting hands as he picks it up on his way to his bedroom. Its place isn’t on the back of his sofa, after all, even if where it’s supposed to go isn’t immediately apparent. It’s almost as if he’s come home and found a puppy waiting for him; he doesn’t particularly want it or know what to do with it, but he still feels compelled to take care of it and do it well. He has a strange feeling that he really wants the creature to like him, too, except this is a jumper in his hands and not a squirming pup and what the hell is his mind doing? 

For once, even Chandler thinks he needs a good night’s sleep. If he’s lucky enough to get one. His bed doesn’t look that appealing and usually it’s the only one that does.

He folds the jumper methodically and with care; he hadn’t missed that it had been left in the sitting room neatly, in an approximation of proper form, but Chandler tucks the sleeves and body into a neat square. Even then it feels a little unnatural in his hand, against the backdrop of his crisply made bed, though perhaps the eerie feeling comes from the lack of absolute conviction in his unhappiness. Because he’s not entirely sure if is is unhappy about this, and he’s got no experience with that. He’s never even thought of offering any drawerspace to anyone before, especially if they’re not even there, and yet there he is, reaching for the wardrobe door.

It’s not easy, when it comes to shutting the drawer. It doesn’t feel right, not quite, not yet, but it’s not wrong enough to stop him from completing the action. His hand lingers over the surface for a moment, fingers tracing the sharp edges as the unnerved feeling settles somewhere low in his stomach. It’s not entirely uncomfortable; he’s used to it, after all. It’s one of his few old friends. Most of the time he knows how to deal with it.

For a moment Chandler wishes he had the man that goes with the jumper as well, wishes he could put this odd, aching feeling into words and explain it to the both of them.

He’d bet he understands it just about as much as Kent does.

* 

Chandler gets in early the next morning, beating everyone else to the incident room although he’s not particularly trying to. He’d have liked to have found a familiar face there, if he’s honest, but he can’t spend his time wishing for things to happen when there are files to chase down and something, somewhere, to find that’ll point them in the right direction. But he supposes there’s always multi-tasking, and he’s always been quite good at that; he keeps glancing over his shoulder, expecting someone to walk in while he’s leafing through the filing cabinets.

It takes half an hour before his hunch is proved right. Kent arrives before the rest of them and that’s not unusual—the order of arrival of his officers is usually a gamble—and although the words Chandler hasn’t been able to prepare jump to the forefront of his mind, he doesn’t approach him immediately. He both wants time to gather himself (but he’s already had the best part of four decades and not succeeded) and to get it over with, to say what he wants to say. Except it’ll probably end up more along the lines of implying what he wants to imply because that seems to be how they operate.

He just wants it to work, whatever he ends up doing.

Chandler learnt from Miles early on that they’re all in better moods once they’ve nursed their first cup of tea; it didn’t take Chandler long to figure out that Kent’s the worst one, after the sergeant, for being short in the morning before a decent hot drink. It’s just a matter of seeing whether or not he’d bought a cappuccino on his way in—and he’s not this morning, so when he leaves his coat hung up on the back of his chair and makes a beeline for the kettle, Chandler meanders over there himself.

(Or, well, he’d like to think he meandered. He probably didn’t. He’s not going to wonder about that now.) 

‘Morning, sir,’ Kent says, smothering a yawn in the crook of his arm as he reaches for the closest box of tea bags.

Chandler hums. It’s almost as if he’s forgotten every other greeting when a moment ago he was desperate to use any of them.

‘Good night?’

‘More or less,’ Chandler says, on a sigh.

Kent shoots him a look that should be too perceptive for this time in the morning, but there’s something about the look around his eyes that suggests he knows, he _knows_ , because he felt a relative of it, too. No matter what he says, it can’t be easy, Chandler knows that. Nothing ever is.

‘Not really,’ he admits, nodding as Kent gestures with the box of green tea.

‘Don’t know why I asked, really,’ Kent says, apologetic with a little half-shrug, as he busies himself with finding a pair of mugs.

Chandler doesn’t either, but he doesn’t mind. It was something to say, after all, and no matter what the answer reveals about himself he’s about to underline it. He sneaks a glance at Kent in the pause, one of the sort that he’s still not entirely sure he’s allowed, and wonders if it’s just his imagination or that Kent does look like he’s had an equally ambiguous quality of nighttime experience. Not a _bad_ night, but unsettled, perhaps?

The boiling kettle sounds vaguely like a cacophonous storm and it takes up most of the space in Chandler’s head for a moment, white and violent noise.

He almost can’t help but say what’s on his mind.

‘You left a jumper at mine.’

‘Oh,’ Kent says, frowning for a moment at the mugs he’s lined up in front of him. He glances up at Chandler’s face but doesn’t let the gaze stick at all. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, I mean—’ Chandler almost falls over himself to say it; that’s not what he meant at all. There’s no guarantee that his face agreed, but that’s not what he meant. ‘Don’t be.’

Kent looks at him again, except this time the apprehension’s been replaced by confusion. Chandler wonders if he should smile, try something reassuring with his face, but he’s not entirely sure that the expression would convey what he wants it to. He knows what Kent had expected his reaction to be; he’d expected the same himself, after all, and he’s still not sure why he seems to be feeling the opposite. He can’t explain it. He can only say it, and god knows he’s terrible at that.

‘Just in case you wondered where it had gone,’ he tries, and the answering corner of a smile he gets is worth the trouble of keeping a similar one on his own face. 

He’s no idea where this leads, or if it does at all, but he’s glad he’s opened that door.

(He’s getting too metaphorical for his own good, isn’t he? Sometimes it’s easier to wrap reality in words, ideas, the abstract being more comfortable than the concrete. Except sometimes he needs the concrete to remind him that the abstract’s based on something real, something tangible and warm.)

Turning to glance over his shoulder, Chandler extends a hand to brush his fingers across the back of Kent’s free hand. The limb jumps in surprise at the unsolicited (and, presumably, unexpected) contact but doesn’t leave entirely; it’s only when Chandler looks back, sure that they aren’t being watched, that Kent meets his eye and slips his fingers between Chandler’s.

Chandler can’t decide between holding his breath and breathing out a sigh of relief, but he doesn’t have to choose, because Kent squeezes his hand once and lets his touch fall away. It’s the smile that lingers on his face that brings the warmth, the feeling that’s dangerously close to comfort.

‘You’re all right, though?’ Kent asks in a hushed tone as he offers the cup of tea to Chandler, his gaze flickering towards where Riley’s approaching the glass doors.

Chandler studies the liquid in the mug, tucks the label from the tea bag under his index finger. Something about Kent’s tone says _Tell me if you’re not_ without him actually having to say it, yet his answer’s the opposite. He hadn’t expected that.

‘I think so,’ he says, just as the doors open with a bit of a clatter. Kent shoots him another quick smile and Chandler can’t help but return it. ‘I’m fine.’

*

'Right then, you lot. I think it's time to pack it in.’ 

‘What?’

Chandler would have balked more violently if his back wasn’t playing up again.

‘For the night, boss, not forever,’ Miles says, arms still crossed as if the mere act of explaining is a waste of his time. ‘Keep your hat on.’

There’s a mumble of agreement that goes around the room, the sort that’s not overt but that Chandler can’t argue with. Any other night he might have tried, in vain or no, but he can’t seem to get through any sort of thought interrupted by a stabbing ache or shooting pain and, for once, he doesn’t want to fight tooth and nail to stay in the office. He might—just _might_ —want to get straight into bed.

Miles can probably tell.

‘Save your all-night shenanigans for when you’ll actually get something done out of it, eh?’ He says, pushing the point with just the right amount of truth. ‘You’re just as likely to have an epiphany in your flat as you are here.’

He gives Chandler a look that says he thinks the odds of that are just about nil. Unfortunately Chandler agrees and doesn’t stop Miles when he launches into more of an explanation. They’ll go through the motions even though they both know he’s given in before they even started.

'If the pattern's anything to go by, we shouldn't be expecting another one of these for at least another eighteen months, and we won't get anything done in that time if we keep on like this non-stop.' Miles glances around the room, as if to look for support, then sighs sharply and gestures at the closest desk. ‘I mean, look at Mansell.’

Chandler turns around properly then, pushing away from where he’d been leaning on an unoccupied desk. Miles is right, look at Mansell: he’s managed to drift off, chin propped up on a hand.

‘Is that another bobby’s trick?’

Miles grunts. ‘Not a good one. He’ll crack his forehead when his arm goes.’

Riley shoots the constable a tender look that Chandler’s not sure he deserves. ‘The poor sod.’ 

‘Oi, home time,’ Miles says, slapping a few more files onto the pile at Mansell’s elbow with enough emphasis to make him wake with a start. ‘You all right to drive?’

‘I will be now. Christ, Skip, trying to give me a heart attack?’ 

‘No, that’s his job,’ Miles says, jerking a thumb towards Chandler. ‘He’s the one that’s got you on eighteen hour shifts. ‘ 

Kent’s the only one in the room who hasn’t moved to pull his coat off the back of his chair, and he speaks to the rest of them without looking away from whatever it is he’s typing. ‘Hate to break it to you, skip, but we’re policemen. Par for the course.’

‘Yeah, well, we do still need to be conscious. I don’t care what he’s told you—’ There’s another gesture in Chandler’s direction, which he’d mind if he wasn’t currently preoccupied with another shooting pain in his lumbar region. ‘—but you can’t actually get anything done through osmosis.’

Mansell chuckles as he gets to his feet. ‘Worked for me in school.’

‘You worked at school?’ Riley asks with overdone mock surprise.

‘Oi!’

‘Home, the lot of you.’ Miles grumbles, although there’s a smile around the edges. ‘Bright and early start tomorrow.’

Someone mumbles something about how unlikely it is to be bright, this is London after all, but they all get on with obeying Miles’ orders. Chandler looks around at them all half-expectantly, because he is the senior commanding officer in the room, but who is he kidding? Miles is right. Occasionally, Miles is in charge. Apparently today is one of those days and Chandler hasn’t even noticed. He should’ve, though, because that’s Kent in the corner of his eye smothering a yawn and Riley’s already on the phone to her youngest, holding one hand to her ear as Mansell helps her manoeuvre the other into the sleeve of her coat. But he hasn’t, because he’s had a head full of the cases and just the way Riley’s contorting her arm in the periphery of his vision makes Chandler wince and his back suffer another stabbing pain.

He does his best to ignore it, but as he leans to speak in a hushed tone to the sergeant he can’t help but press a hand to his sacrum. ‘I should probably make some comment about insubordination, Miles.’

‘Well, you weren’t going to say it.’

Chandler can’t deny it, but Miles doesn’t even give him a chance. He just pockets his car keys with a loud rattle and nods towards Chandler’s bent elbow.

'Get that back seen to. I can't have you keeling over on me.'

‘How—?’

‘Like I said, I know everything,’ Miles says, although he adds, ‘And it’s bloody obvious,’ over his shoulder as he makes a beeline towards the room’s exit. 

Chandler resists the urge to swear under his breath (for a myriad of reasons, only one or two of which within his control), and follows suit.

*

His phone beeps when he’s halfway to his car; he almost doesn’t check it, just for once, but his sense of duty forces him to. It would be his team who’d be called back in as soon as they’d decided to call it a night. Maybe that’s why he feels such a rush of relief when it’s Kent’s name that pops up and not Miles’.

_Shall I follow?_

He resists the urge to look back towards the building and see if he can see the lights of the incident room. Chandler can't muster up the willpower to refuse; he's feeling too sorry for himself. He probably should, since they've got so many seconded detectives and liaison officers and a half-terrified PC that Ed seems to have commandeered as a research assistant in there that someone's likely to notice, but for once he wouldn't mind the company. He hasn’t minded Kent’s company for a while. Clearly.

And if anyone asks (meaning, Miles), then he just wants someone to bounce ideas off of, and Kent’s always been very good at that. 

*

Coincidence is on their side. Kent sidles up next to him on the pavement just as Chandler’s surfacing from his building’s underground car park.

‘Bad back?’ he asks, matter-of-fact. 

Chandler makes an assenting, unhappy noise, and they don’t say anything else until the make it to the solitude of the lifts.

'Skip's right, you know,' Kent says as they wait for the machinery to climb its way through the floors. 'You should get it looked at.'

‘And do what about it?’

Chandler knows he’s starting to sound sulky, but it’s true. He’s not wasting his time with a bloody chiropractor, he’s always thought they’re more likely to give you more problems than to solve the one you started with, and all a doctor’s going to say is take painkillers and rest. Or take painkillers and move about a bit, whichever seems to work better. Both are conclusions he’s perfectly capable of reaching himself.

Kent’s just looking at him, biting his lip over a sudden smile. ‘I never had you down as resentful of doctors.’

‘You don’t like hospitals,’ Chandler says as there’s a ping and the doors open.

‘That’s not what I said, though, is it?’

Kent’s words are almost playful as he strides out into the hallway; Chandler follows and grumbles something incongruous as he unlocks his front door. He’s not really sure how or why they’re having this conversation at all, or if it’s necessary, but shutting the door behind him with Kent on this side of it feels more natural than it probably should be. Or maybe it _is_ supposed to be this way. He doesn’t feel sure on a good day, anyway, and tonight’s definitely not the end of one of those.

‘I couldn’t imagine you being described as childish either, but there you go again, proving me wrong,’ Kent continues, with a gentle laugh, as he double-checks the deadlock. ‘Go on, bed. I doubt you want Skip to find out you get like this.’

Chandler groans quietly, because he’s imagining the same outcome that Kent is, and as much as he likes to disagree with Miles he has to admit he’s probably right about needing to do something about this. Even if it is only having a lie down.

‘He won’t let it go for weeks.’ 

‘I get the picture,’ Chandler grumbles as he makes his way through the sitting room, although he’s well aware he’s fulfilling Kent’s previous characterization. He doesn’t particularly mind, mainly because it’s not high on his list of priorities, and a little because it’s Kent. 

‘Have you tried gin?’ Kent asks, tone forcibly light, just as Chandler’s braced a hand on the doorjamb.

‘What?’ he asks, turning only because that’s such an odd question. ‘Why?’

Kent does that lopsided smile and complements it with an equally lopsided shrug. ‘My mum. She’s always said gargling with it’s good for a sore throat and she doesn’t see why it wouldn’t work on other things.’ 

Chandler almost chuckles. ‘You want me to drink my way out of backache?’

‘Well, when you put it that way…’ Kent trails off, his own laughter filling in for Chandler’s lack. ‘Take it with a grain of salt. It’s her sister who’s the psychic.' 

‘Enough said, I suppose.’

And it is, because Kent shoots him a knowing look as he fishes something out of a coat pocket as he hangs it on the usual hook and Chandler manages a half-smile before he treads through the doorway. He can hear Kent on the other side of the wall, the partially-closed door. He’s on the phone, most likely to his flatmates judging from the inflection, but either way Chandler can’t be sure. He can’t pick out words (not that he’s trying), and the sound’s just a murmuration, a familiar mumble. It’s incredibly odd, but at the same time, it’s starting to feel as if they’re slipping into place.

But then again, Chandler’s starting to wonder if a slipped disc might not be in his future.

He gingerly manoeuvres himself into something more suited for lying in bed, folding each piece of his suit the best he can with the sharp stabs of pain that keep getting worse as he pushes on. By the end he's grimacing and biting back curses; he can't even be bothered to pop into the ensuite to find a box of painkillers before lowering himself onto the bed. It's as if now he's admitted that he feels it, now that he's given up trying to make it seem as if he's all right and could keep on standing looking at those whiteboards for another two weeks straight, it's that much worse.

This is why he usually goes for denial, deferment. If he keeps going he never has to deal with this. It deals with itself. Eventually.

The low murmur of sound lulls to a singular rhythm of socked steps; Chandler takes a deep breath and tries to focus on the way the sound shifts at the junction of wood and carpet, but he’s cut short by another ache that seems desperate to get his attention. It’s much more rude about it than he normally allows.

(As if he’s actually got much control over his nerves, in any of the traditional senses.)

‘I suppose it’d be useless to remind you that you work too hard?’ comes Kent’s voice from the threshold. ‘I know you’re not constantly lifting boxes, but…’ 

Kent trails off and Chandler forgets himself as he tries to turn to seek out the rest of Kent, his face; the movement's abruptly halted by another shooting pain and an unadulterated wince. As slightly offset by the warm hand Kent strokes across the back of his neck, but there's no forgetting that it's there.

'Where exactly is it?'

Kent’s tone is gentle, but Chandler still huffs. He isn't entirely sure, because he occasionally gets this but hasn't in months, and it's always a radiating wave of pain. There must be a source, a focal point, but he's given up on trying to find it. He's always a bit preoccupied finding other things.

'Nonspecific pain, then?'

'It's rather specific,' Chandler says, voice tight.

‘You know what I mean.’

Somehow, the soft chuckle that comes with Kent’s words doesn’t rub Chandler the wrong way. He does know what he means, he does, he’s just taken one too many leaves out of Miles’ book. He tells Kent as much but still doesn't expect the palm on his back. He jumps but it's involuntary and he doesn't have to say anything; Kent already knows.

'Do you mind?'

Chandler lets out a long breath, admitting for once how tired he’s gone. ‘You don't always have to ask, you know.'

'I should know, but I still want to.' The _just in case_ is implied; Chandler’s grateful. 'So, do you mind?'

'Do you think it'll do anything?'

'It does for me. I don't know about you.'

Never have truer words been said.

'It's worth a try,’ Kent continues, stoking light touch up and down the dip of Chandler’s spine. ‘The only other thing to do is get some painkillers down you but those'll take, what, twenty minutes?'

Chandler nods, turning his face against the pillow. It's an awful thought in itself, the tension and the jolting pain, but he knows himself and anything he's got neatly lined up in the medicine cabinet is only going to take the edge off. They barely work for headaches anymore. This, whatever this is, is a bit more persistent.

Kent's thumb brushing back and forth across the fabric on his lower back; it's oddly comforting. Grounding.

'Go on,’ Chandler urges. 'Don't—don't interrupt yourself.' He's not even sure that makes sense, but Kent huffs out a laugh so it probably does. 'If you push too far, I'll let you know. Trust me.'

'I do,’ Kent says, voice quiet until it regains a joking edge. 'Although I think, in this particular situation, it's you who should be trusting me.'

They both already know Chandler wouldn't let anyone else get this close. He doesn't even need to say it; Kent's hands on his back, across the spread of his shoulders is as much of an admittance as words. He’s not applying any pressure, not yet, just resting his fingers across the curve of his arm. Chandler wills himself not to shiver as Kent runs a hand across the spread of his back, and it almost works.

Kent runs a slow hand up his back, a central line until the tips of his fingers reach his hairline, pressing the heel of his palm into the space between his shoulders; Chandler wouldn’t have thought it would have any effect, but the distraction is surprisingly effective. Chandler’s still wondering about the prickling memory of the contact when Kent presses his fingers into the small of his back, avoiding the vertebrae, staying on either side, careful, cautious.

Neither of them really know what they’re doing, do they? Aßnd this isn’t the sort of thing anyone wants to get wrong. Either way Chandler doesn’t interrupt—he’d told Kent not to, he’ll exemplify his own advice—and lets him touch and try and test. Anything, even a slip of Kent’s hand or a push that’s just on the wrong side of too hard, is better than focusing on the ache.

He’d started off grazing touch and pressure over Chandler’s top, but after a stuttering pause Kent slips his fingers under the hem, hands hotter against bare skin. Movement rucks the fabric and Chandler shifts so that it will move, so that Kent’s hands are unhampered, pushing at the ache. It’s not expert—not that Chandler really knows the difference—but it’s earnest, sincere. But that’s Kent all over, isn’t it?

Relaxing isn’t exactly natural to him, but he knows the theory behind this and nothing will work, despite their best intentions, if he stays tense. That’s his problem at the root, isn’t it? Chandler forces himself to concentrate on relaxing those specific muscle groups. He can’t say that he almost forgets Kent’s touch is there—because it very much is, and he notices, and he’s not entirely sure what to make of it because he doesn’t immediately recoil at the intimacy of skin against skin—but he’s distracted enough for something, somewhere in his brain to enjoy it. The pressure’s better than the pain and it almost doesn’t matter where it’s coming from until the force behind Kent’s touch increases. He almost bites his own tongue but then Kent presses both thumbs into the small of his back and there's sudden relief, a respite.

'All right?' Kent asks, easing back.

'Yes,' he says, through half a gasp and gritted teeth. 'I think you've found it, though.'

'Oh, good.' Kent presses a little harder, pushes in a half-circle. 'Better?'

Chandler makes a noise—he can’t tell exactly what it is, he probably doesn’t want to and he’s just focusing on the pressure of Kent’s fingers instead of the coiled tension—and arches a little into the press of Kent’s fingers, the singularity and honesty of it. It feels almost as if he’s admitting something here, in this need. Maybe he is. Maybe he’s needed Kent for longer that he’s known, but either way he presses his forehead against the pillow as Kent works to trace the depth of his muscles.

Eventually, after a period of time Chandler can’t put a name to, Kent smoothes his palm across the skin and muscle he’s just pressed and prodded; Chandler hums although the sound stops short from the surprise kiss Kent lays against the back of his neck. It isn’t that Chandler’s not pleased—because he is, they’ve established this already—it’s just that he’s still surprised Kent will offer it to him.

'How long has it been since you've rested?' Kent asks quietly, stretching to stand up straight. 'And note that I didn't say sleep. There's a difference.'

'I suspect it won't take you long to figure out that I've spent more time at my desk than anywhere else since this whole thing began.'

'You've been aggravating something you've had before.'

Chandler hums his assent; it's the most he can do now that Kent's absent-mindedly stroking his side. He might forget himself just as much as Chandler does in the quiet moment that follows, when he trails the shadow of his fingers upwards and into the back of Chandler’s hair, the nape of his neck. 

'Where d'you keep your meds?'

Kent doesn’t move his hand; Chandler doesn’t want him to.

'Ensuite. Left hand cabinet.'

'Any preference?'

'There's only one type in there.'

Kent makes a sound that suggests he thinks he should have known that would be the answer. Chandler’s inclined to agree with him, really, since it _is_ exactly the sort of thing he’d do, isn’t it? The stab of loss that runs through him when Kent’s hand slips away, taking its inextinguishable warmth with it, is entirely different. That’s not something he’d have expected himself to feel, though Chandler has to admit it’s becoming more and more common. Ever since that first night, on that street, he’s had a soft spot for how warm Kent is.

In more sense than one.

The backache hasn’t gone completely, and Chandler doubts that anything that isn’t pharmaceutical would do that job properly, but there’s something about the pain that’s more peripheral. He can’t tell if that’s Kent’s doing or his own; he can’t tell if it matters. It probably won’t last either way, not without a little help. Or a reminder. Chandler presses his forehead into the edge of his pillow and tries to think whether or not now’s the right time to ask, right time to push himself to push them. Because he does want Kent to stay, now. He does. (He has for a while.) 

Kent’s voice draws him back into the room as he reapproaches. ‘It’s probably tension. Or stress.’

‘One of the two,’ Chandler says, and his voice is almost like Miles’ grumbling. ‘Or Ed’s bloody boxes.’ 

Kent chuckles as he pushes painkillers out of their blister pack. 'You'll feel better if you sleep.'

'I never knew you were a nursemaid.'

'I have a myriad of talents,’ Kent says with half a smile. 'Here, take these.'

Chandler carefully heaves himself onto an elbow and takes the tablets from Kent’s outstretched hand; he washes them down with the glass of water Kent offers with the other. Embarrassment spreads through him as he hands the glass back. He shouldn’t treat anyone like that, especially not Kent, but he’d spent ages getting glass stains out of his furniture last year and he’d be loathe to do it again. He hadn’t been able to look at them without feeling a twinge of unease for about a week. But Kent doesn’t bat an eyelid and holds out a hand to take it from him and what on earth has he done to deserve someone like this?

'Shall I stay?' Kent asks, idly running his fingers over the rim of the glass.

The answer's sure and quick. 'Yes.'

Kent smiles at him then and it's almost relieved, though Chandler can't understand why. He's more malleable, infinitely more suggestible like this; if Kent wants an affirmative answer then this is the time to ask, just when he's managed to somehow work a knot out of his muscles with only the present experience to go on. Maybe it was just dumb luck but they don't seem to get very much of that.

'Okay.' He still sounds vaguely thrilled, and looks around the room as if looking for something to smile at. ‘I take it you don’t want a cup of tea.’

‘I’m not keen on moving anything at the moment. Not even for tea.’

‘Just me, then.’

Chandler hums, and breathes, and waits. It’s slightly unnerving that he’s lost the ability to estimate how much time has passed when Kent returns, holding not only a mug of tea but also a paperback, one that Chandler recognises as his own only by its distinct lack of wear and tear. Of all the strange things that have already happened over the course of the evening, a lack of compulsion’s not the most shocking, but even as he lies there, Chandler doesn’t feel a need to warn Kent of any adverse reactions he may have. Because he knows he’s safe with him, which is a dangerous thought, but Kent seems the sort of person who knows when not to mutilate a book. And, if he’s honest with himself, Chandler’s almost as interested in which of his books caught Kent’s eye as Kent was interested in which books in the shop caught his.

He should mind that Kent's lying on his back on the empty side of his bed still half-dressed. He's just in his shirt and trousers now, his waistcoat discarded somewhere, and Chandler doesn't mind. Maybe he's just desperate, or maybe it's the codeine. Either way he's glad Kent's there, even if it is sat in his work clothes on top of his duvet, on top of half a made bed while he lies face down trying to chase the sickly taste of painkillers from his tongue.

He doesn’t know why but he tries to drown out the taste with words; that book in Kent’s hands is actually one of the better ones he’s read. He’d bought it ages ago, for some dubious connection Ed had found for a case that turned out to be absolutely nothing at all; nevertheless he’d read it, just in case. He does a lot of things _just in case_ and that’s one of the more benign ones.

Chandler gathers what’s left of his wits and tries to pick the right words. ‘That’s—’

‘Shh,’ Kent says, interrupting the thought before it’s even found its way out of Chandler’s mouth. ‘Joe, go to sleep. Even if it’s only an hour, it’ll be better for you than trying to work through it.’ He pauses, as if waiting for an affirmation, but continues regardless. ‘You won’t think straight.’ 

‘It seems as if I rarely do,’ Chandler says, resisting the urge to huff into the eiderdown. It’s easier to go along with Kent’s assumption of his preoccupation with the case than it is to muster up the courage to commend his choice in reading a second time.

‘You know what I mean.’ Kent’s mouth twitches into a sad smile, but it doesn’t linger. ‘Don’t worry. Take a few hours off for once. I’m still thinking.’

Chandler just watches him. It’s not easy, he’ll get a crick in his neck if he insists on doing it for much longer, but he can’t tell why Kent’s promise actually calms him. It shouldn’t matter who’s doing the thinking, or when, or for how long—only that they do enough of it to figure out whatever it is they’re missing—but, in the stretch of this moment, it does. Chandler trusts Kent, trusts him with almost everything of importance. He’s even starting to trust him with himself.

Kent smiles again, soft this time, and looks as if he wants to reach out but doesn’t quite dare. 'We'll discuss it when you're next up, yeah?'

‘Okay,’ Chandler says, meeting his eye before resettling. ‘All right.’

The room and flat are quiet, not exactly silent thanks to their breathing. The inside of Chandler’s head is the same as ever, perhaps even busier because he shouldn’t be in bed yet, he shouldn’t be doing anything except working, but ignoring it is getting easier. He knows his body wins out over his mind just as often as his mind bests his body, and Miles is right. He can’t work well with a back that’s about to give out. Now and then a twinge comes back, occasionally something stronger. But it's all dulled, a little separate, thanks to whatever it is that's worked, whether that's the tablets or the pressure or the fact that he's drifting off. 

Or, perhaps, it's because Kent's resting his free hand between Chandler's shoulder blades.

* 

It's dark when Chandler wakes, and at first he doesn't realise it's odd for him to be lying there on his own. He battles sleep off slowly, as if he’s been in a much deeper sleep than really suits what should have been a nap, and when he does remember that he’d gone to sleep with someone next to him, with someone’s gentle familiarity just on the edge of consciousness, it arrives with a certain degree of shock. Whether that’s because there’s no one there now or he ever allowed it at all, Chandler’s not sure, but it’s there.

He’s not at all keen on it.

But he's a detective, and although he does have a predilection for panic, he can put the pieces together. The lights are off in this room and the curtains are drawn, so unless he’s developed an ability for incredibly useful sleepwalking he hadn’t imagined drifting off in an apartment with two occupants. The bedroom door is mostly pulled closed, and that’s unlike him; he sleeps with it open. There are lights on in the space beyond, and if he’s reading his watch right it’s passed the time for sunset so that’s someone else’s doing, too. Kent’s, most likely, and if it isn’t then he’s got more problems than his dodgy back.

Still, none of that proves that Kent’s stuck around. Chandler wouldn’t blame him if he’d gone home, to be honest. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself in someone else’s flat either. 

Chandler shifts gingerly onto his side, and when his musculature doesn't punish him for it, he tips over onto his back. He’s not normally one to loll about but judging from the state he was in earlier he probably shouldn’t push it. No matter what Miles thinks he has got some sense, even if it does have to get knocked into him most of the time.

He rubs at an eye with the heel of his palm and peers at an approaching shadow as his vision blurs and comes back into focus. It’s strange to realise that recognising Kent approaching his bedroom door doesn’t inspire some sort of panic in his chest. When had he become a permanent fixture? If Chandler thought about it he’d probably think that it was a long time ago, when he wasn’t looking and never even thought to, but his thoughts don’t seem to be going anywhere just yet. Maybe he isn’t entirely awake.

‘Oh, hello,’ Kent says, smiling, as he leans against the doorframe. He fidgets with the mobile in his hand, the folded paper. ‘Feel any better?’

Chandler clears his throat and tries to say, ‘I can’t tell yet,’ in a way that’s not too sleep-tinged.

‘Probably a good sign.’ Kent pushes away from the wood. ‘You’d know if it wasn’t.’

‘You say that like you’ve had experience.’

Chandler wants to wince as soon as he says it. Of course he’s had experience. How could he forget? Kent’s had worse than this. _Much_ worse than this. Everyone’s had backache, it’s one of those universal empathies, but only Kent’s had that much to fear from his sciatic nerve. Chandler can puff and blow and do a pretty good impression of Miles when he’s picked up his daughter at a funny angle but Kent—

He doesn’t want to think about it. He swallows instead and brings his hand up to rub his throat.

‘I’m not as young as I once was,’ Kent says, approaching with a warm and unworried smile. ‘And that’s a relatively new realisation on my part.’

Chandler shoots him a questioning look that’s supposed to carry some of the same air he uses as a DI, but the fact he’s sat in bed with sleep in his eyes probably dulls its efficacy. That’s probably why Kent laughs. 

‘Let’s just say I wouldn’t advise trying to cycle anywhere in a hurry when you haven’t done it in a while.’

A small chuckle fights it way out of Chandler’s chest even though he’s still not entirely sure he feels it. That’s the expected reaction, though, the one that’ll put Kent at ease, so he lets his instinct run the show until he can gather his thoughts for long enough to see where he’s—they’re—up to with them. He sits forward slightly and gingerly arches his back, touching at the afflicted region with a wary hand; when he finds that he’s still managing to evade any more sudden grasps of pain, he finds himself nodding towards the still-open door. 

‘Nothing’s gone on, has it?’ he asks.

(Chandler wonders if that’s the best way to ask _Why were you through there, then?_ The _And not with me_ hovers somewhere in the corner of his mind, shy and retiring and still not sure whether or not it’s in the right place at all.)

‘Sorry, yeah,’ Kent says, clearing his throat and gesturing with his phone. ‘I was waiting for a call from the station. I didn’t want to wake you.’

‘Any joy?’ 

‘I don’t know yet.’

Chandler doesn’t dare hope. Not about that. ‘Anything I should know about?’

Kent shrugs. ‘I had a couple of ideas but I’ve just disproved one of them.’

‘Ruling something out’s never a waste of time.’

‘This time it might be,’ Kent says, hiding what looks like a modicum of embarrassment in a laugh. ‘It wasn’t really a fully-formed train of thought. Since the autopsy-as-punishment that Ed mentioned was handed down by religious courts I thought I’d have a look at that particular bit of the history. But it’s all doctrinal theory and quite dense, as you might expect. I’ve got no chance.’ He chuckles again, quieter this time as he looks at his hands. ‘I’ll have to have Ed make me a crib sheet.’

‘That’ll take about as long as the tox screen will,’ Chandler mutters, getting to his feet and finger-combing his hair.

Kent lets out a short breath of laughter and pushes his phone back into his trouser pocket; as soon as he’s done it he looks a little lost, as if he’s not entirely sure what to do with his hands. Chandler’s not sure, either, because he’d got up with purpose but he seems to have forgotten what that was. All that he can think is that, surprisingly enough, his back’s all right (who knows how long that’ll last) and he’s close to ridiculously relieved that Kent’s still here.

So that’s what that feeling was. Attachment. It has a certain potency, doesn’t it?

Chandler closes the distance between them and, after a moment’s hesitation cradles Kent's skull; he takes what’s supposed to be a calming breath, then bends his head to kiss him tenderly because he's not sure he ever has before. They’ve kissed, obviously, because for some reason that’s what started this entire thing off; Chandler’s let Kent kiss him, and he’s instigated his own, but he lingers this time, every part of him attuned to the way Kent reacts, the way his hands ghost over his sides in surprised and hesitant touch. The grip of his fingers gets more sure with each gentle press and retreat, press and retreat; when Chandler leans away to look at Kent’s expression the younger man’s hands are splayed against his waist. 

(He appreciates the confidence.)

Chandler shifts his delicate touch to the back of Kent’s neck, lightly stroking over his pulse. ‘Thank you.’

Kent’s gaze flicks between his eyes, almost a question in itself. ‘I wanted to.’

‘That’s what I meant,’ Chandler murmurs. 

Kent nods, and still for an uncertain moment until he switches the hand he’s rested against Chandler’s side for an arm wrapped around his middle and pulls him closer. He presses a kiss against the column of Chandler's neck, holding it there longer than he must.

Chandler sighs and holds him there, close and warm, and it's this, _this_ that had been missing when he'd woken. He couldn't have thought of what it was, couldn't have conceptualised it without Kent's fingers winding into the fabric of his top or without the press of his chin as he pulls them tighter. It's not just contact anymore—Chandler can do without that, could have done without that—but somewhere, somewhere in their twined limbs and bent heads there's understanding. Kent knows what Chandler means, he has to, but perhaps for the first time Chandler's seeing Kent, seeing what he means.

It doesn't just feel like reciprocity, although he's always thought of it as that.

It's something else, too.

Chandler presses another kiss into Kent's hair and almost doesn't realise he's doing it until it's done, until Kent hums and rubs at his side as they part. He hadn't realised it could be that easy.

He's thought about this in all the wrong order, hasn't he? It's almost enough to call forth another twinge of panic, an unsettling thought in the back of his brain that shouts louder than all the others, but Kent squeezes his wrist and smiles with half his mouth and, for some unknown reason, all Chandler feels is glad.

*

Dinner is easy. They’ve done that before.

It’s what comes after that makes Chandler think. 

Kent’s been a little more… well, the word’s probably demonstrative. Chandler’s noticed. He can’t not, really, because he tends to notice everything whether he wants to or not. What are usually glancing touches linger a little longer, and there’s more of them, peppered in with what should be entirely casual. Chandler’s not against it, per se, he just doesn’t quite know what to do with the knowledge. The situation—if you can call it that—comes to a head when Chandler’s left sitting on the sofa as Kent washes out the mugs they’ve just finished. Entirely routine—again, if you can call it that—until Kent leaves the ceramic upside down on the draining board, walks back to the sitting room, and  drops straight back into the small space between Chandler and the end of the sofa. He yawns and drops his head to Chandler’s shoulder, nestling in. All without a word. 

Chandler expects to be alarmed. He almost is, except he’s alarmed about his lack of alarm. He does his best to shove that aside and instead extricates his arm from where Kent’s pinned it against his side to touch at his head, adjust where his skull’s digging in to the bone of his shoulder. He ends up trailing light touch through Kent’s hair and smiling at the way that makes him shift a little closer, a little firmer, fitting into gaps Chandler doesn’t realise are there.

It’s just he’s starting to notice them more, now, when Kent invariably hops back on his bike and braves the late night traffic back to his flatshare.

'You could stay,’ he blurts out. (He’s starting to do that a little too often.)

Kent goes very still, tense where a moment before he'd sloped against Chandler's side.

'Only—' Chandler starts, correcting what he hadn’t meant to be a mistake. 'Only if you'd like.'

There’s another silence, although shorter this time, before Kent picks his head up and meets Chandler’s gaze. The contact skitters for a moment, and Chandler wonders if he looks more panicked than he feels.

'I'd... well, I'd like that very much.' He cocks his head slightly to one side. 'I'm just trying to sort out the logistics.'

'Isn't that my job, in this case?'

Kent nods slowly, as if he can’t argue with that. Chandler tries an encouraging smile, though he only really manages half. What he wants to say is that he hasn't wanted, he hasn't hoped this much before. Except that's a terrifying thought and he can't think it for very long so he doesn’t. He pushes it aside and focuses on the way Kent’s looking into the middle distance, a slight absent smile playing on his face. 

'My back might go again,’ Chandler suggests, his voice almost playful.

Kent huffs out a small laugh. ‘Well, if I’m needed.’

Chandler can’t help but think that Miles would approve, in his strange way. He’d said Chandler ought to do something about his back, and as far as he’s concerned he’s done just that. Except Kent probably isn’t the consultant Miles had in mind and he presses a soft, firm kiss at the corner of Chandler's mouth, his arm lying across Chandler's stomach and his hand curling around his side.

His shirt's rumpled, just a bit, but Chandler can't quite tell if he minds. He smooths it down anyway, running his fingers across Kent’s side and allowing himself to enjoy the way the muscle jumps, the way Kent hums and it comes from a different place in his chest so it almost sounds like purring. The impression’s helped by the way Kent settles more firmly against him again like a cold cat by a warm radiator, and Chandler winds an arm around the spread of Kent’s shoulders as the younger man rests his head close to the crook of Chandler’s neck. They stay like that for a while, the only movement the gentle rise and fall of their breathing and the intermittent shift of Kent’s grip on Chandler’s side. It’s only when Kent’s head slips a little forward and his breathing changes that Chandler nudges him with a slight shift of his shoulder.

‘Come on, then,’ he says, and he’s got no idea how that comes out with a smile. ‘You’re falling asleep.’

‘No, I’m not.’

Kent doesn’t sound entirely convincing, what with the slightly slurred words and the way he adjusts the angle of his head without opening his eyes.

Chandler runs his fingers through the back of Kent’s hair. ‘Not even Miles can get away with the _I’m just resting my eyes_ excuse.’ 

Kent huffs out a laugh; or, well, he tries. It comes out a little more like a snuffle.

‘You’d better hope I don’t tell him you said that.’

‘I was sort of banking on you not throwing me under the bus.’

Kent hums and mumbles something that sounds a little like, ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ and although he’s strangely warmed by the certainty in Kent’s voice, Chandler finally lifts him away from his side and, propping Kent against the cushions, gets to his feet.

The younger man cracks an eye. ‘Oi.’

‘You coming?’

‘If you’re sure.’

‘It’d be cruel of me to send you home now,’ Chandler says, trying for an amused tone, though when Kent’s more-open-than-usual face betrays a flicker of hesitancy, he changes tactics. ‘I’m sure.’

‘You don’t mind?’

‘I don’t mind.’

It’s the truth, even if Chandler is managing a nervousness that’s threatening to grow. But he’s putting that down to what should be typical in a situation like this. No one can do this without a little flip of the stomach, can they?

Then Kent nods, Chandler’s anxiety both peaks and apparently disappears, and as Kent gets to his feet Chandler reaches out a hand to wrap around Kent’s wrist. He needs no help or steading, Chandler knows, but the contact makes it easier for him to lean over and press a kiss to Kent’s cheek.

(He barely even feels self-conscious about it this time.)

The logistics are surprisingly straightforward, though that probably has something to do with the fact that Chandler’s the sort of man who usually has an unopened toothbrush in his bathroom cabinet. He does debate for a moment whether or not to hand Kent one of the unopened t-shirts he keeps in their plastic in the drawer beneath his work shirts, though in the end that seems a bit clinical (even for him) and he hands over one of his own instead, fresh from the wash.  

It’s worn in all the wrong places to be Kent’s own. In the end Kent smells like him, like his detergent, like his soap. It brings out a murmur of something wistful in Chandler that lasts until they’ve both managed to slide under the covers. He doesn’t miss the careful way Kent folds back the duvet, almost tentative; they catch each other’s eye and Kent offers him a smile that seems about as nervous as Chandler feels. At least he’s not the only one—it’s that thought that keeps him going until they’re both under the covers, lying side-by-side as Chandler reaches to switch off the last lamp.

He settles his head on his pillow and waits for his eyes to adjust; he’s aware of Kent next to him, of another weight on the mattress, of the warmth of a body nearby, but he’s still not sure what to do with the information his mind gathers for him. It takes Chandler a moment longer to realise that Kent’s shivering—not a lot, just slightly, he’s doing well at suppressing it and Chandler wonders how long he’s been able to do that, if it comes from interviewing witnesses in London winters or something more sinister. He turns onto his side, shuffling so that the movement’s noticeable and he won’t take Kent by complete surprise, andreaches out to hook an arm around Kent’s slim waist. He hesitates for a moment as Kent tenses at his touch, but Kent shifts backwards towards him slightly and Chandler draws him him, carefully fitting his chest against Kent’s back. 

‘Sorry,’ Kent says, the word slipping out almost as a reflex. ‘I wasn’t sure if this would count as overstepping a line.’

Chandler drops a lingering kiss to Kent’s shoulder, on that sliver of warm, bare skin that’s between the neck of his shirt and his hairline. That counts as a reply, doesn’t it? He means it as one.

‘I know, but…’ Kent tries to shrug and only just misses Chandler’s chin. ‘Should have said, shouldn’t I?’

Chandler doesn’t think there’s any _‘should’_ about it, really. He wouldn’t know. He doesn’t know, even now, with Kent pressed against him and the shivering subsiding. Kent can say or not say what he likes. That’s how it’s supposed to be, isn’t it?

‘You can leave me to figure some things out on my own.’

Kent chuckles. ‘I was about thirty seconds away from asking if you happened to have a spare hot water bottle.’

‘Will this do?’

There’s an assenting hum, a strangely welcome vibration against Chandler’s chest, and Kent somehow manages to shift closer without actually moving. He doesn’t feel cold, not particularly, but Chandler’s not got his hand against skin so he can’t be sure. He wants to be sure. He won’t be tonight, though. Chandler knows that much. They’ll work up to that, eventually, but they’ve already jumped a few rungs at once with this so he tightens his grip for a moment’s half-embrace.

It’ll do. For now.

They lie in silence for a short while. Chandler finds himself smiling slightly and although the realisation makes him feel slightly ridiculous he doesn’t force himself to stop. It’s only when he feels Kent take a breath to speak under his hand that he corrals his expression into something a little more stoic.

'I might, um...' Kent falters and takes another breath. 'Occasionally, I'm a fitful sleeper. Only occasionally, but, you know. Better that you know. I probably should have said something before, actually, but...'

Chandler closes his eyes and swallows. 'Is it... is it what I think it is?'

'Probably.' The word’s quiet and followed by a heavy sigh. 'Don't you dare apologise.' 

Chandler’s already opened his mouth to do just that but he shuts it with a short exhalation. He rests his chin on Kent’s shoulder instead. ‘All right.’

He knows he doesn’t sound convinced. He’s not, actually, but if there’s one thing he’s always going to be willing to defer to Kent on it’s this, it’s what he did to him when he hadn’t meant to. He never wielded the knife, just like Kent never saw it, but he can’t think of any argument that can absolve him of any involvement. He sent Kent out. He was responsible for him, he was his commanding officer, he was the one who thought they were working with something much worse than the usual gang violence and even then he hadn’t seen it coming.

‘I never blamed you,’ Kent says in a quiet voice, one that Chandler thinks is more for his benefit than Kent’s. ‘It never occurred to me to blame you.’

The way he whispers it implies that someone’s tried to convince him to. Chandler could spend the next hour thinking up exactly who—his flatmates? His parents? His sister, his aunt, the team—any and all of them had enough reason, didn’t they? Chandler knows. Chandler’s spent enough time thinking about it.

‘Stop it.’

‘What?’

(Chandler knows exactly what.)

‘You’re overthinking it.’

‘I—I think—it’s something that deserves thought, don’t you think?’

Kent huffs in a way that makes Chandler think he’s amused and not irritated, although the sound’s not quite a laugh.

‘It’s had enough already,’ he says, voice soft but with an air of finality that he reserves for when he thinks it’s necessary.

Chandler doesn’t push it. He wants to, and he almost does, but Kent runs his hand down the length of the arm Chandler’s wrapped around his stomach, settling fingers between fingers. That shouldn’t feel like punctuation, and it certainly shouldn’t feel like some sort of an answer, but lying there in the dark with the rhythm of Kent’s breathing loud in his mind, Chandler can’t help but accept that that’s where the conversation ends.

*

Chandler stirs as soon as Kent folds back the covers; he's a light enough sleeper as it is, and he's not used to putting up with someone else stretching beside him. He's not used to the vague, half-indignant feeling he gets when Kent slips out from under his arm, either, but he'll wonder about that later on. When he next gets the chance.

Which will be in a while, because it’s well and truly morning and they’ve got a shift to work.

A phone goes and it takes a moment of peering at his own for Chandler to realise that the alert wasn’t for him at all; instead, it’s Kent’s phone that’s illuminated and beeping on the other bedside table, the one that never gets any use. He wonders vaguely if he should see what it’s about, if that’s allowed, but Kent’s evidently able to move faster than he is in the morning and he reappears, shrugging his shirt back on, and turns over the device with a twist of his wrist. He reads the text—Chandler assumes, because if not then Kent’s got no idea how to answer the phone—standing half-hunched, buttoning his shirt without looking.

Then Chandler realises that he’s just lying there, watching Kent frown and the corners of his mouth turn down, and he’s never done that before in his life. Not that he’s spent the night with Kent before, either, so waking up with him in the room’s a first by default. So it can’t be that strange, can it? It’s probably nothing; just the kind of thing you do early in the morning.

Chandler’s not thought about anyone else noticing in a long time. The realisation drives him into a sitting position and his vision swims before his eyes, so okay, maybe he’s not quite awake enough yet. Not for rational thought, at least. That explains it.

He’s still trying to piece his thoughts together when Kent rounds his corner of the bed; it’s clear that it’s not his imagination, then, or a strangely prophetic dream. It’s probably a good thing that Chandler’s not compos mentis enough to feel embarrassed yet, because he usually would be, and yet when Kent leans close to him he feels nothing of the sort.

'Got to go,’ Kent says, murmuring against Chandler’s cheek as his mouth quirks into a smile. 'Got to convince my flatmates I'm not dead.'

Chandler huffs; he’s not sure whether or not that’s supposed to be a laugh or some sort of annoyance. Either way he’s aware of the way Kent’s hand seems to have taken up residence at the nape of his neck, the fingers tracing his pulse as if Kent’s still not entirely sure if he’s real. The reverse is true as well, for Chandler wants to reach out and touch Kent—perhaps his hip, the slope of bone he’d felt in the night but never imagined before—except he doesn’t know how or if he should or if it would be all right so he presses his palms against the fitted sheet instead.  

'Shouldn't I be offering you breakfast?' he asks, tone laced with self-deprecation.

Kent chuckles. ‘Only if you want me to come into work wearing the same suit as yesterday.'

Chandler’s mouth quirks into a small smile and he turns a little bit further into Kent’s wrist. ‘We should plan this better, next time.'

'Next time?'

The question’s surprisingly breathless. As if he thinks this was his only chance, the only time they’d try this. Chandler can’t see how he got to that conclusion—really, he can’t, and he can run through all the possibilities impressively quickly—but at the same time he can see how the idea might worm its way into Kent’s head. Rationality has nothing to do with this, has it? He knows that, he can see that, but he understands how hard it is to wrap one’s head around it.

'Next time,’ he says, and it’s the first time this morning he’s had a clear thought.

Kent beams and dips down to press a fleeting kiss against Chandler’s lips. As usual, it makes Chandler’s mind go abruptly blank.

'See you at the station.' 

Chandler rubs an eye as Kent’s hand slips away. ‘I’ll see you out.'

'You don't have to,’ Kent says, glancing over his shoulder from where he’s started walking away. 

Despite his words, Chandler can’t help but notice that he does slow his pace, and the older man _smiles_.

He gets to his feet and catches up; with a warm smile he chances a touch to Kent’s side and says, 'It's the least I can do.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: 28 July 2014.
> 
> Again: thank you all so much for all the comments, kudos and support you've given this fic so far! :)


	8. Chapter 8

If there’s anything that’s ever convinced Chandler that there’s no such thing as principles of causality in the world, it’s police work. They spend days doing good—following up every lead they think they’ve got, asking any and all questions that occur to them, looking for any discrepancy that might give them a connection or a concrete line of inquiry—and they get nothing in return. They know everything that’s in those case files backwards and forwards, they’ve done their best with the skeletal remains and the scant information those bones give them, and there’s nothing new to grab on to. Not yet. Despite all that bloody good will.

The evening finds him sat forward at his desk, elbow propped on the edge while he leafs through the pages of their backlog of files. Miles should have known better than to bring him a new batch right before the end of shift, though perhaps by the time he was herding the rest of the team down to the pub he’d realised his mistake. That had been an hour ago, and the incident room’s been inky dark since then, the only light that’s there comes from his own office and the duty sergeant’s desk at reception. The paper probably reflects a small amount, in a strictly scientific sense, because even that’s a source of reluctant comfort since they aren’t illuminating in any metaphorical way.

‘Don’t you think it’s time to go home, sir?’ 

With a slight start, Chandler looks up from the papers on his desk to find Kent leaning against the open doorframe; he gestures with the coat in his hands as if to testify to the time of day. He sits back suddenly, straightening the pages that his elbows push out of place, and checks his watch. God, when had it got to that time? His sense of the hours slipping by is getting worse by the week.

He runs a hand over his forehead and sighs. ’I thought there might be something in the forensics.’ 

‘So did we,’ Kent says with a subdued laugh as he crosses his arms, folding his coat between them. ‘They’re difficult to compare.’ 

‘That’s an understatement.’

‘Though I’m sure it can be done.’ Kent’s tone is softly confident. ‘If you really want to.’

Chandler’s still uncomfortable with that tone, not because he doesn’t appreciate it, but because he can’t possibly deserve it. Can he? Here he is, sat over cases that have no apparent link to the ones they’ve pinned up on the whiteboards, coming up with nothing except the thought that perhaps a cup of tea will help. It won’t, he knows, but at least he can try that.

‘Where’ve you been?’ he asks, honestly curious.

(He’d thought Kent had gone with Miles; his desk’s been dark every time Chandler’s looked up and thought he might find Kent there.)

‘The stacks.’ Kent nods towards his feet, directionality implied. ‘Just double-checking if Ed hadn’t misfiled anything that might be of use.’

He doesn’t need to ask if there was anything worth reporting; Kent’s face says it all. The fact he’d gone down there and spent time going over the files again, looking for anything that either is supposed to be there that isn’t or anything that isn’t supposed to be there that is, is a testament to the roadblock they’ve reached.

Kent ducks his head, a slight inclination. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, sir.’ 

Chandler nods absent-mindedly; he doesn’t particularly register that Kent’s just dismissed himself until looks up again and still expects to see him leaning his head back against the wood, expression safe and familiar. It’s a jolt, that knowledge, and suddenly Kent’s retreating pace seems much quicker than usual.

‘Wait—‘ Chandler calls, although his voice is half-hushed, and he gets to his feet with a haste that’s almost uncharacteristic.

Kent stops mid-step and turns back to face Chandler as he shrugs on his coat; they’re both shrouded in shadow but enough light’s thrown through the glass doors from reception to see by. Kent’s face is questioning, surprised; it’s not often Chandler darts out from behind his desk, after all, and even rarer that the occasion should not include something vital to a case. Kent straightens his coat collar, a matter of habit that Chandler’s noticed ever since he’d presumably bought the thing that first hard winter, and he stands waiting in a way that’s reminiscent of a constable awaiting his orders.

Chandler comes to a stop before him, takes a breath, smooths his hands down the front of his waistcoat, and opens with a statement that’s probably not his best attempt at overly self-aware humour.

‘This is a question you probably won’t want to answer by calling me _sir_.’

‘I’ll decide that for myself, thanks,’ Kent says with a slight smile that should be out of place as the set of his shoulders relaxes. 

‘Have you got plans?’ Chandler asks, still fumbling over his words. ‘For tonight, I mean.’

‘Not particularly.’ Kent says, shrugging. Then, as a self-conscious afterthought, he looks at the corner of the closest desk and murmurs, ‘Not unless you count trying to make sure you don’t work yourself to the bone.’

He reaches out and prods with gentle fingers at the edge of the desk in the ensuing silence, and Chandler almost reaches out to soothe the embarrassment with his own touch. He doesn’t, because although it’s dark, PC Matthews is still sat reading the day’s paper on the other side of a set of glass doors, and no matter what Miles says Chandler can’t just decide that it doesn’t matter. It may, or it may not, but neither of them really understand that yet and Kent’s looking at him now, his fingers steepled against the wooden surface, so Chandler focuses on the question he’d had in mind in the first place.

‘I don’t suppose you’d want to go for a drink.’

Kent’s features move into that much-loved quick, soft grin. ‘I wouldn’t mind.’

* 

Chandler’s not sure how he manages it, but they end up in his flat before long.

He tries to talk about things that aren’t the case, but it doesn’t quite work because those are the only things left in his head. He can’t leave them at the office—he knows none of them can, not really, the human mind doesn’t work like that but perhaps the fact that his seems to be a little dysfunctional makes him keep hoping. And Kent’s not much of a help, because obviously he can tell, and obviously he doesn’t mind.

‘I should,’ he says, finishing his drink. ‘But there’s no point. It’s not a bad thing, Joe.’ 

‘I beg to differ,’ Chandler says, huffing as he turns to glare at whoever it was who just bumped his chair.

Kent lays a brief touch of his hand to Chandler’s knee, his palm warm and a reminder that he’s all right. ‘Say what’s on your mind.’

Chandler’s tempted to run a hand over his face but he’s sat at this slightly sticky table long enough so he must have touched it at some point; he halts the motion mid-movement and straightens the beermats instead. It doesn’t particularly help, but it does let him think. Kent doesn’t watch him openly, he never does, but there’s a flicker in his eyes that reminds Chandler that he notices. He doesn’t say anything, not now, not this time, but he knows.

(He accepts.)

‘Not here,’ Chandler says when Kent finally catches his eye. ‘We can’t discuss an open case in public.’

Kent nods, then regards the dregs of froth coating the bottom of his glass. ‘Home?’

So they end up in Chandler’s flat, coats hung up beside the door and Kent’s phone charging where Chandler usually leaves his own. When he passes he can’t help but reach out and align the two, make the corners match as if there’s a grid in his kitchen that he’s trying to fill in, but it’s fleeting this time because Kent’s stood over the kitchen table, bracing himself against the surface with one arm and flicking through Chandler’s pages of notes with the other.  It’s a sobering pleasure, that sight, and Chandler walks to join him with a much more relaxed stance then he’d thought possible a couple of hours beforehand.

Kent slides a look in his direction as he approaches—he looks away, however, when Chandler rests a palm on the small of his back.

‘Anything in particular niggling at you?’ Kent asks.

Chandler sighs. ‘Probably. Not that I know what it is.’

Kent huffs a sympathetic laugh; Chandler revels in the way the sound is movement under his hand and it doesn’t make him flinch.

‘Could they have known one another?’ Kent suggests, shifting his weight onto the other leg and somehow settling closer into Chandler’s touch. ‘We’ve been looking for something unusual that connects them. What if it’s something that’s bog standard?’

‘I suppose it’s possible,’ Chandler admits, straightening his back a little. ‘But the timing’s off. The Poplar remains—they’re a decade older than the Cartwright case, aren’t they?’ 

Kent hums. ‘Mid-nineties, give or take a few years. They were very keen on emphasizing the existence of a margin of error.’

Just their luck, really, Chandler reckons. They can’t be sure of anything on that sort of timeline.

‘Right,’ he says, ‘so that would make less sense. The anthropologist put the remains down as those of a man in his mid to late twenties, one who’s seen a lot of battering in a relatively short period. Cartwright would have been in her teens at the time.’

Kent makes a cynical sound in the back of his throat. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’

Chandler’s about to sigh and say something akin to _I suppose it wouldn’t, no_ when the doorbell goes and his thoughts dry up. He and Kent exchange similar expression of entrapment.

Chandler recovers first, touching at the back of Kent’s hand with his fingertips. ‘I’ll go.’ 

Kent nods. He doesn’t hide and he doesn’t have to, not as far as Chandler’s concerned. He feels Kent’s hand slip away, and without thinking he grasps for Kent’s fingers, giving them a quick squeeze. It’s supposed to be comforting, but he doesn’t know why or what for, because there’s only someone at the bloody door and it’s probably nothing. It isn’t as if the Commissioner’s likely to be on his doorstep. Chandler’s not even sure if they’re supposed to be keeping this—them—secret. They haven’t exactly gone out of their way to, after all. It’s just sort of worked out this way. But then again, there’s got to be a reason why he’s never been round Kent’s flat.

But he’s not going to think about that now; there’s not enough room left in his head, not now, not with all this. He turns and tries to brace himself for the shock he knows is coming, but Kent takes the sleeve of Chandler’s shirt between his finger and thumb. It’s a loose enough grip that Chandler could easily pull away, decide that whoever’s at the door is more pressing, but instead the light pressure makes him turn and search Kent’s face. They need to stop lingering like this. It’ll get them in trouble one day. Maybe even tonight, depending on who’s at the door and how patient they are, but he lets Kent kiss him softly, so the thoughts don’t sting. Then all of a sudden he’s nudging him in the direction of the door, palm pressing just beneath his sternum.

‘Sorry,’ he murmurs, although Chandler can’t tell what he means. ‘I don’t know why—go, quick.’

The doorbell goes again, a little more insistently this time, like someone’s applied more emphasis for more time. Chandler huffs and weaves through his furniture and walls to heave the front door open; he finds Miles there, one hand raised as if he’s about the rap his knuckles on the door. 

‘See?’ The sergeant says, lowering his curled fingers. ‘I knew I’d find you here.’

Chandler sighs. He won’t say it’s in relief, but it’s in relief.

‘At least you didn’t just let yourself in this time,’ he says, easing a little from his stiff posture.

Miles chuckles. ‘Now you’re making me think I should have done. Who’re you hiding in here?’

Chandler has a mad urge to say, in no uncertain terms, that Miles knows exactly who he’s hiding. But there’s no real need, because the way Miles’ smile has turned crooked tells him he already knows, and for the umpteenth time he wonders if Miles is actually psychic. Maybe it’s something you earn with age.

‘I—’

He’s stopped mid-word by the telltale sound of someone—they all know who, don’t they? There’s no secret here, there never has been, Chandler couldn’t even hope for that much since it was Miles who shoved him in this direction grinning like a Cheshire cat—but he still halts his veiled excuse and listens. 

‘Skip?’ 

Kent’s voice is painfully familiar. Chandler half-winces; he’s got no idea why but it’s what he’s supposed to do, isn’t it? At the point of discovery. Or is it validation?

Miles keeps a comically straight face. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’ 

Chandler looks over his shoulder, his expression apologetic; Kent looks half-alarmed and half-bewildered, stood there in his socks in a flat that’s quite expressly not his own.

‘At ease, kid,’ Miles says, his face softening to something encouragingly friendly. ‘You knew I knew. You owe me a decent Christmas gift this year, by the way, for getting this sod to see the light.’

‘Right, then.’ Kent doesn’t sound surprised in the least, although there’s something that’s still recovering in his voice. ‘Socks it is.’

‘As long as they’re not novelty.’

‘I think Judy’s got that covered.’

Miles harrumphs in a way that says he’s heard that joke before. Kent smirks and comes to stand beside Chandler, although he doesn’t reach out to touch him. Instead he leans on the opposite doorframe, as if he’s part of the place. Chandler supposes he is.

‘Haven’t interrupted your Grand Designs, have I?’ Miles asks, continuing on his sarcastic streak with what is probably an impudent amount of glee.

Kent huffs out a laugh and inclines his head towards Chandler. ‘Unlikely. He can’t stand Kevin McCloud.’

‘What?’ Miles looks at him curiously, as if his face is smudged or his nose is bleeding. ‘Why?’

‘I think that’s beside the point,’ Chandler says, eyeing them both. He’s starting to wish he’d never mentioned that now. There’s something to be said for not being comfortable enough to share odd details about himself.

‘Probably true,’ Miles says with a long-suffering sigh; something about his countenance shifts. ‘We’ve got another body.’

Chandler grips the edge of the door until his knuckles blanch. ‘We can’t be the only ones on the duty roster—we can’t take on any other cases, not with—’

‘Let me stop you there, boss.’ This time Miles says it with no relish. ‘This _is_ our case. Cases, actually.’

‘Oh, Christ.’

(This is nowhere near what Chandler had wanted to happen tonight.)

Miles fishes a crumpled paper from a coat pocket; he doesn’t hand it over, he knows better than that, but he reads out the details.

‘David Brown, the vic in that robbery in Mile End. Girlfriend found him in his flat an hour ago.’ He huffs another sigh and folds the page along a new line. ‘It’s not pretty.’

Chandler can imagine. ‘Same MO?’

‘As good as,’ Miles quips, although something about Chandler’s face must call for more gravity, because he adds, ‘From what the initial report said, yes.’

‘And SOCO?’

‘Llewellyn’s already on her way.’

‘How—?’ Chandler can’t help but ask; usually they end up waiting for forensic teams, not the other way around.

‘She was round ours for dinner.’ Miles turns to Kent with a gruff laugh, almost startling him out of his position studying the layout of the floorboards. ‘We never quite manage to get around to pudding on these occasions, something always turns up.’

Kent’s mouth quirks into a resigned half-smile. ‘Sod’s law, skip.’ 

‘Where are we up to with it?’

‘Girlfriend’s still at the scene. No one’s been able to shift her to anywhere further than the tiny patch of front garden and last I’d heard she’d demanded the time to have a cigarette or three before she’d give anyone a statement.’ Miles harrumphs and  Chandler can understand both of their reactions; it’s not the first time they’ve got a witness who’s borderline aggravating, but he can’t blame her, either.

Miles continues in a tone that’s mildly more rational. ‘Body’s still in situ. Won’t be moved until we’ve been there. Not that SOCO and the photographers will want anyone else in there yet.’ 

Chandler nods; that’s something, anyway. ‘So we’ve got time to regroup.’

‘Just about.’ Miles nods, then scoops his phone out of an inside pocket. ‘I’ll find Mansell. His team’s playing tonight and I know his local.’ He lifts the mobile, trying to get a better signal, and peers at the screen through narrowed eyes. ‘Judy’s rung Riley.’

‘ _Miles—_ ’

‘It’s all right, I didn’t disclose any sensitive information.’ The sergeant tuts, although his countenance isn’t entirely argumentative. ‘It’s not as if we all haven’t been to this place before.’

Chandler can’t disagree with that. All Judy would have to say is _jewelers_ and _Mile End Road_ and Riley would know where to go and, in all likelihood, why. They’ve all developed a certain sense of when something’s happened, what the severity probably is. Chandler almost can’t bear to think it—it would have been bad enough if they hadn’t been sniffing around the precursors, seeing what’s happened before. It’s not about to get better. It never usually does. Not for them.

If Chandler was a man who believed in a prescribed order of things, a layer of concealed workings in the world, he might even think they’re walking into a trap.

But apparently neither Miles nor Kent share this unfounded fear, and they exchange pragmatic looks that say they’ve gone through this a hundred times before. Chandler knows that he has, too, he’s shared a good number of that hundred but on nights like these, on calls like these, he still feels green. He never quite feels in control. Perhaps he never has been; he’s never brought any of them in, these perps who hand them callouts that send especially prickly tremors down his spine.

Maybe that’s an omen. Maybe that’s his guilt.

Kent sighs and pushes away from the doorframe. ‘I’d better find my phone.’

This time he does reach out and press his hand to Chandler’s side for a moment then as he turns and ducks back into the flat; it’s not much, not really, not in the grand scheme of things, but between them it’s probably equivalent to them having a snog where someone might see. Even so, Chandler’s grateful for the contact.

Miles cranes his neck to watch Kent go. ‘Going well, is it?’ 

‘Shut up, Miles.’

*

‘Dead or just resting?' 

‘Dead.’

‘Oh, good. Glad we got that sorted.’ 

Chandler’s not sure whether he approves of sarcasm this early on in the day. Especially when it’s coming from Miles in one of his moods. 

‘A little more detail would be appreciated nonetheless,’ he says, appealing to the small sliver of Llewellyn’s expression that’s not already exasperated.

It doesn’t entirely work. She’s been at work for as long as they have, after all, and it’d been coming light just as Chandler and Miles had made their way to the pathology labs. He’d make some offer of breakfast but it doesn’t seem quite right in the current situation. Chandler fosters what he considers a healthy distaste for post-mortems, although he can appreciate the clean lines, the emphasis on sterilization. Even so, the sharp smell of chemicals coats his throat and he attempts a dry swallow. Something about his face must make Llewellyn take pity on them.

She sighs, picking her hands off her hips and ushers away the assistant who’s been attaching labels to David Brown’s wrists.

‘He was in generally good health,’ she begins, ‘save for the smoking—you’ll see the discolouration on the fingers and, if you fancy, the state of the lungs.’

Chandler doesn’t look past her onto the dissection table. He doesn’t particularly need reminding that half that job had already been done for them.

‘Yeah, well,’ Miles says, as cantankerous as he usually is when he’s stood over a body at dawn, ‘We knew he didn’t just drop dead of his own accord.’ 

‘Can’t hurt to rule it out.’ 

Miles harrumphs but motions for Llewellyn to continue. She only does after a moment’s stern glance. 

‘This was a dissection, not a vivisection,’ she says, leaning on the side of the table and regarding the body with an academic’s eye. ‘Small mercies, I suppose.’

There’s something pragmatic about her tone, although the small sigh is a little doleful. Miles does nod at that, somber and quiet in his version of solidarity. Chandler just eyes the incision and wonders how anyone can call that mercy. He shakes the feeling off and focuses on the need to receive and remember information; he can only hope to make connections—between any two points, they’ll grab on to anything that’s dangled in front of them at this point—and to do that he has to stop crowbarring in his own.

Llewellyn straightens her stance and extends a hand to indicate what it is she wants them to look at. ‘He was strangled first.’

‘You’re certain?’

‘Bruising behind the voice box. Fracture of the hyoid bone. Rather straightforward.’

She doesn’t need to explain those anymore; they’ve all seen them so often that they understand the implication. Chandler can’t help but flinch away from the faux-memory of the first shock of the hand around the throat, the slow struggle. He shuts his eyes and swallows hard. The room feels even brighter when he opens his eyes, even more unflinching.

‘There are scratches, too,’ Llewellyn continues, her gloved fingers hovering around Brown’s jaw, ‘that suggest he tried to prise off the hands of his attacker. The curled nail impressions do suggest that he was strangled manually.’

Chandler nods. ‘How long ago?’

‘With the lividity of the bruising? At least twenty-four hours. Possibly longer.’

‘Any chance of prints?’

‘I’ll run tests, though I doubt it. Oftentimes with these sorts of cases the victim gets a chance to dislodge the hands once or twice which, like I said, looks like what’s happened here. Unfortunately it disturbs prints. If there’s anything there, it certainly won’t be optimally clear.’

Miles tuts. ‘Anything in the blood?’

‘As I said, I’ll have to run some tests.’ Llewellyn shoots Miles another long-suffering look. ‘From these injuries, it looks as if he was strangled when he was on the ground. His attacker was likely either kneeling or sitting astride him.' 

Chandler considers the hypothetical situation. So the attacker would either be absolutely covered in blood—unlikely—or ready and prepared to move on with speed. Was speed of the essence? Probably. Then why strangle? It’s certainly not quick. Not foolproof. But of course this guy knows what he’s doing. Maybe it is, with him. Maybe there wouldn’t even be any blood. Maybe he got up before making the incisions. Maybe he has the foresight to bring gloves (he probably does, even the idiotic ones do nowadays).

‘There are minor bruises under the scalp and on the spine, suggesting he’s been pressed on his back. There’s no impression of a ligature, though. And there are some teeth pressure marks on the reverse of the lips.’

Llewellyn lists each finding, each injury, as if reading from a checklist. She probably is, in a way, but it doesn’t stop Chandler from flinching as if his own body had felt the blows Brown had endured. He suppresses them as best he can, as he had that first time he’d worked with Miles and Llewellyn in that tent.

‘And all of that agrees with the asphyxia?’ he asks, rerouting his focus.

‘It’s not even a hypothesis anymore,’ she says, standing back for a moment to allow Igor to get a better angle for their photographs. ‘It’ll all be in the report. Should be on your desks by lunchtime.’ 

‘I’ll be surprised if I don’t expire before then.’ 

‘ _Miles_.’

The sergeant looks around at him and slips a crooked grin; even Llewellyn’s smothering a smile and there has to be something to be said for being able to laugh whilst stood in a morgue. It’s probably why they cope better than he does. It’s only Mansell who’s worse; most of them probably wouldn’t agree, Chandler knows, because he _looks_ all right and he spent years perfecting that. He doesn’t have to be green and retching to be feeling off-colour.

Chandler clears his throat, shaking his head, and asks, ‘Any thoughts on possible links? Could it be the same perpetrator?’

‘I’m willing to say that the similarities between the trauma inflicted on David Brown, Alexandra Cartwright and the other victims are more than superficial.’ Llewellyn moves as if she’s about to scratch her head, or tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, but she remembers protocol just in time and stops mid-gesture. ‘I can make no such statements about the Poplar remains, but looking at the anthropologist’s findings and drawing on my own experience, there are certainly instances in the examination that are familiar.’

Miles half-tuts and half-yawns. ‘Meaning?’ 

‘As uncomfortable as I would be saying that the remains bear near identical injuries to your other victims, I would be equally uncomfortable saying that there is no connection between them whatsoever.’

‘Exactly how many of years of your degree was dedicated to roundabout rhetoric?’

‘Only one course.’ Llewellyn shoots them a momentary grin. ‘I got top marks.’

‘Of course you did,’ Miles mutters, cracking a crooked smile.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Chandler says, rubbing his own forehead to try and ward off the threatening headache, ‘but what exactly are you saying?’

Miles huffs at him, as if even after all his complaining the meaning’s obvious. ‘That she won’t say it is but she won’t say it isn’t, either.’

‘Right.’ 

‘What I mean, Ray,’ Llewellyn says, snapping the latex gloves from her hands and dropping them into the closest bin, ‘is that I am willing to back you up if you pursue the Poplar remains as connected to the deaths of Cartwright, Brown, Mitchell, et cetera. I cannot be definitive, but detectives are not the only ones who have hunches. I have the science, I report my findings, but like you, I come to conclusions.’ 

‘And here?’ Chandler prompts.

Llewellyn regards him with a careful look. ‘It’s not in the report, but I think that the report on the Poplar remains identifies instances of damage that are also found in the bodies I’ve examined. Of course the flesh evidence is long gone, but what’s left… he could share skeletons with Brown.’ 

‘So there’s certainly a comparability factor between the cases.’ 

‘I’d say so.’

‘Caroline,’ Miles says, ‘you’re a star.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ she says with a smile that forgives most of the sergeant’s peevish attitude. ‘Igor can get raw images to you within the hour.’

‘I think we owe that man a drink.’

*

They spend the rest of the day informing and interviewing David Brown’s next of kin. Kent and Riley pop down to his office, the publisher’s, and find that it’s much more cutthroat than any of them had expected. But everyone he knew in conjunction with his job has an alibi and a handful of witnesses so they strike that side off. It’s something else. If only it was as easy to see what that could be.

Chandler’s pouring over the copies of Brown’s calendar, emailed to him in the very last minutes of the working day, when Miles walks into his office late in the evening and plonks himself down into one of the desk chairs that they usually leave for guests.

‘What do you make of the girlfriend’s statement?’ he asks, nodding towards the open file on Chandler desk.

He abandons the electronic files that are already playing havoc with his eyes to glance back at the handwritten page, the ink of the pen Mansell had used and the words she’d spilled into the late night air. Even the paper the words are written on seems to hold down the wisps of cigarette smoke they came out of her mouth with.

Chandler sighs. ‘I can’t fault it. Everything checks out. She’s been with her parents in Norfolk, looking at property. Both the family and the estate agent checks out. And Mansell’s just gone through all the CCTV and she was certainly on the train at the times she said she was.’

Miles clucks his tongue, checks his watch. ‘Late train.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ve never been entirely sure about when off-peak is, either,’ Chandler says with a dark, self-deprecating smile. ‘I suppose it’s a case of better safe than sorry.’

‘And if she was with family, she probably wanted the day with them.’

Chandler hums in agreement and Miles hides a yawn in the crook of his arm.

‘Anything else tonight, then, boss?’ 

‘I suppose not.’ He has to admit it, even if he doesn’t particularly want to; they’re working well past the end of shift already just to get all the preliminaries down, but even some of those can’t be resolved without some more follow-ups. ‘I’d like to double-check with the homeowner who was in during one viewing that all of them were where they say they were, but we won’t get through to them at this hour.’

‘Well, I’ll be. You’ve learnt some sense.’ Miles looks at him with a look of overdone surprise that quickly falls away to his usual sardonic self.  ‘About a decade too late, but we’ll take what we can get.’

Chandler chuckles despite himself. ‘Cheers, Miles.’

On any other night there might be more jabs that come with that response, more time dedicated to pointing out that his reaction’s out of the ordinary and he’s not even trying to put on a stern face anymore. If Miles was feeling particularly rascally he’d probably be asking whether or not this change of heart has anything to do with Kent. But he doesn’t, he just gets to his feet and turns to the rest of the desks; Chandler’s almost relieved, because he’s not got an answer to that question. He’s got suspicions, but no answers.

‘Come on, you lot,’ Miles announces to the room at large, reaching for his coat. ‘We’re finished for today.’

Usually that sort of statement would be met with grateful expressions, possibly a smile or two, but there’s just a sort of resigned pause. It’s Chandler’s appearance at Miles’ shoulder and his somber nod that sends them packing, although not with the same zest as usual. They slide papers into bags with limp wrists, fingers weary of pressing keys and scribbling out notes, ideas that soon get struck off. Mansell has trouble finding the second arm of his coat and only manages to worm his arm through it when Riley points it out to him; he offers a thanks squashed within a yawn. Kent looks up for a moment, meets Chandler’s eye with a look that says he doesn’t believe him (and he’s right not to), then turns back to his papers, pen working twice as fast across the forms, the printouts.

Miles jostles Chandler’s elbow and nods towards the younger DC. ‘Make sure he gets home,’ he says, shrugging on and straightening the collar of his coat before letting out a disgruntled laugh. ‘Preferably before the date changes.’

‘I—‘ Chandler doesn’t know what to say. He knows what he’s going to do, but he can’t put it into words yet. ‘Don’t worry about it, Miles.’

The older man huffs. ‘That’s a big ask when it comes to the two of you.’

Chandler wonders whether or not there should be a telling-off for that comment. He’s just implied, in public, in a busy incident room, that Chandler and Kent are a little more than officers on the same subdivision of CID. They are, of course, but Chandler has no idea what they are, where they’d file their relationship. He can’t explain it yet; he doesn’t want to try, not until he can get it right. But Miles is smirking and, all of a sudden, halfway towards the doors; Riley and Mansell haven’t even bothered listening.

‘The poor mite,’ Riley says, fastening her coat and nodding in Kent’s direction. ‘He hasn’t put down those bank statements since they arrived and he’s only halfway through.' 

Mansell leans as if to see around something, then tuts. ‘Hasn’t even touched the tea I brought him.’

‘Now that I can’t blame him for. It’s positively singed,’ she says, laughing at Mansell’s overdone affronted expression. ‘Forget standing a spoon up in the slop you drink. The thing would disintegrate.’

‘Either way, he’ll be taking root soon.’

‘He’ll wither within the week.’ Riley jabs a finger towards the faltering bulbs. ‘There’s no light in here.’

‘And I’m not watering him,’ Mansell adds.

Kent clears his throat as he turns another page. ‘I _can_ hear you two, you know.’

‘Then you’ll recognise the masses of concern in our tone.’

Kent pointedly scratches his jaw with his middle finger. 

Riley laughs and mutters, ‘Cheeky sod,’ as she and Mansell make for the station doors.

Chandler waits until they’ve all cleared reception, flashing their badges to the duty sergeant with wearied smiles, before he approaches Kent’s desk on his own. Kent looks up as the sound of his gait slows to a stop at the edge of the piles of paper, the crossed out names and phone numbers they’ve already tried. For once Chandler catches sight of the columns of numbers on the page in Kent’s fingers, held only loosely now his attention’s on something else, and the DI’s vision almost swims with them.

‘I can’t find anything in these, sir,’ Kent says, placing the page down parallel to the edge of his desk. He straightens it slightly, not looking in Chandler’s direction, and it’s only the fact that they aren’t entirely alone in the station that stops Chandler from reaching for his wrist to halt the movement. ‘Everything coming in seems legitimate, and there’s nothing going out that suggests he could be paying someone off.’

Chandler nods, because although that’s not the information he’d come over here to sort out, it’s useful nonetheless.

‘Miles says I’m to take you home.’

‘Bit forward of him,’ Kent says, picking up the paperwork and sliding it into the closest empty file.

Chandler’s confused, for a moment, by Kent’s dismissive tone; it’s when he reaches for a pen and turns the folder to label it in neat capitals that Chandler catches his bemused smile and relaxes.

‘And a bit beneath your rank, sir,’ Kent adds when he finally looks up to meet his eye.

There’s still something of a joke between them, even as Kent holds out the file and Chandler takes it from him with the same grip that he uses when he’s handling cases, when he’s dressing down witnesses and trying to find an answer. Kent knows it’s not beneath him; he knows, now, that it’s something he’d offer to do, something he’d do without even having to be asked. Chandler’s got used to him being in his flat. The place feels a little empty, now and then, when it’s just him. More and more of Kent’s things have made their way into Chandler’s drawers, into his alignment. They’ve got sides of the bed. They know what they’re doing.

Chandler tucks the file into the crook of his elbow and crosses his arms. ‘I can’t exactly put you in a squad car with directions to my address, though, can I?’

Kent quirks a brow. ‘Really?’

Chandler hums in assent. He realises he’s switched to speaking in a low tone, one that won’t be overheard although there’s no one there who’d care, though Kent’s confusion isn’t about that. He’s probably considering the logistics. He has a tendency to do that, even if they’ve all been sorted out.

‘But what about…?’

‘I imagine Miles thinks he’s been very kind,’ Chandler says, with a small and grateful smile, ‘because in telling me, personally, to make sure you get home, he’s also given me an excuse to pick you up in the morning.’

‘But you won’t have to.’

‘But I won’t have to.’

He smiles a little. ‘That is kind of him.’

Kent doesn’t make to move, only shifts a little in his seat as he clicks through the open windows on his monitor. Even so, there’s warmth in his tone that brings the shadow of a smile to Chandler’s face as he stands and waits. There’s something about doing this, about being able to do this, to stand at Kent’s shoulder and feel as if that’s somewhere he belongs. He doesn’t have many of those places, not really, because there’s always something that needs fixing but as long as Kent’s still breathing then this, this is all right.

It’s an oddly comforting thought. Even amidst the mess of the case, the chaos of the incident room.

With a deft series of clicks Kent shuts down the station’s computer; he waits for a moment, just to make sure the system’s doing as it’s been told (the program’s more likely to misbehave than any human officer), then grabs at his phone.

‘I wonder which of us owes the skipper his next bottle of whiskey,’ Kent asks as he gets to his feet, reaching for his coat.

Chandler smiles. ‘We can go halves.’

*

Chandler wakes up unnaturally fast, though it only takes a second for him to realise that’s probably because Kent’s just used his chest to push himself up into a sitting position.

‘Emerson?’ he asks, trying not to splutter as he blinks through the last remnants of sleep. Kent doesn't turn, and his spine's far too straight. Something feels _wrong_. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ Kent says, although it’s more than a little breathless. ‘It’s all right, it was… nothing.’

Chandler pushes himself up on one elbow and uses the other hand to reach out and brush his fingers across the ridge of Kent's back. He hasn't exerted enough pressure to feel, not really, but that thing about all your senses being stronger when one's gone must be true because although he can't really see properly (his eyes get progressively worse at adjusting each year), Chandler could have sworn that he can feel the muscles tense under his fingertips.

‘It’s not nothing,’ he murmurs, shifting so he's sitting upright. His bones might creak and one of his elbows cracks, but he does it anyway on the off-chance it might help. He doesn’t quite see how it will but some primitive part of him tells him to do it, so he does it.

Kent doesn’t look back over his shoulder, just draws his knees up to his chest and rakes a hand through his hair; his fingers catch in the curls at his neck. He might be trembling ever so slightly—or that might be a trick of the light.

'Em, look at me,' Chandler says, his voice grating from disuse. 'It's clearly not nothing.'

'Except it is.' Kent’s gaze skids over him, too quick to see anything properly. He crowds his words with fingers hovering around his mouth; Chandler resists the urge to draw his wrist away. 'It’s all in my head.'

'Oh.' Something shifts in Chandler’s chest; it feels foreboding. 'It's not—'

'No, it's not.' The words are cross and waspish. Kent's gone back to staring at nothing, his thumbnail in his mouth. 'It doesn't always have to be that.'

'It would be understandable—'

'I have lived with it longer than you. Don't tell me how to feel about it.'

Chandler lets his fingers slip away from the line of Kent's back, his palm resting on the rucked sheets. He’d be lying if he says that doesn’t sting; it keeps on stinging through the silence, like a snap of an elastic band, but this time it doesn’t help. It makes his mouth go dry and something in his chest shift uncomfortably, like a rib creaking out of place. It’s the sort of thing that makes him scared to move, too scared to lie back and try and ignore this has happened because if he does that it feels like he might actually fall apart. Striking a weak spot, and all that. It’s all it would take.

The silence wanes thick and thin. It’s only the click of Kent’s throat as he swallows that reminds Chandler they’re both there. 

He almost gives up on recovering from this before the morning light, but eventually Kent’s posture softens into something more lenient but certainly not relaxed. He’s still, almost too still, and there’s a moment of absolute, terrible silence before he’s turning and reaching for him. Kent grabs at Chandler's shirt, pulls; the angle is bizarre but he’s is pressing his nose into Chandler's shoulder and taking breaths that are too deep and controlled to be unconscious. Chandler's not been up long enough to overthink it so he wraps his an arm around Kent's ribs, twists his fingers in the back of his hair. 

'Sorry, I didn't mean...' Kent starts, adjusting his grip against Chandler’s back and turning into the soft heat of his neck. 'I'm all right.'

'I know.'

And he does know. Chandler’s more than aware that out of the two of them, Kent’s not the one who’s not all right. He strokes the nape of Kent’s neck and waits. He holds Kent as close as he can, twisted in the sheets, and for such a slight form he’s very warm, throwing off heat through repressed panic. Or maybe it’s just that Chandler’s noticing more now, when he’s glad for the proof. He watches the walls through the darkness, his breaths slipping through Kent’s hair.

‘I know you’re all right.’

Kent might smile, for a split second, or that might be a figment of Chandler’s imagination. Either way it doesn’t change the fact that Kent isn’t shifting and doesn’t appear to plan to anytime soon and Chandler doesn’t want him to. He doesn’t know what on earth he can do about this, what he’s _supposed_ to do about this, but Kent’s tucked his nose into the curve of his jaw. He’s breathing deeply, still controlled, and for a brief spell Chandler feels on the verge of panic.

He’s got nothing to draw on for this. Absolutely nothing except himself and he knows he’s an anomaly. He finds himself pressing a tender kiss to the back of Kent's ear but all it serves to do is make Kent grip him tighter and Chandler can't help but feel he's made a mistake, he doesn't know what to do or where to go from here. He should, because he's more than familiar with this sort of amorphous, indistinct fear, but what he does about it won't work for Kent and it's close to impossible to do in bed anyway.

Chandler finds himself gentling him with kisses, the best he can do; even as he does it he can feel Kent’s heart thumping against his ribcage, rabbit-startled. The slight way Kent presses back when Chandler reaches his mouth gives him some confidence that they’re past the worst of it. 

Kent pulls back just far enough to look at Chandler.

‘Sorry,’ he says, pressing a canine into his lip. ‘I shouldn’t—you need your sleep.’

Chandler reaches across the small distance and gathers Kent to his chest again, an arm across the span of his shoulders.

‘You did warn me,’ he murmurs, giving Kent’s shoulder a comforting squeeze.

Kent lets out a little laugh at that, a slight and sudden lurch of his chest against Chandler's. ‘Yeah. I suppose I did.’ He pauses, oscillating between pressing his mouth to the curve of Chandler’s shoulder and drawing back to speak. 'I couldn't even tell you what it was. What it is, when it happens. The… whatever it was, image, I don’t know, went as soon as I woke, as soon as I knew I was here and not... wherever I was. The rest of it, though…’ 

Chandler hushes him, presses him slightly closer. Kent wheezes for a second but doesn’t pull away. Instead he huddles closer, finding slivers of space where Chandler thinks there are none left, and rests his chin on Chandler’s shoulder. The press is painful, sharp, bone against bone, until Kent relaxes his hold and rubs his mouth against the seam of Chandler’s shirt.

'It's stupid,’ he says, relaxing even further.

'No, it's not.'

Kent laughs again then, another solitary chuckle as he turns his face back towards Chandler's neck. 'Don't lie for my ego's sake, Joe.'

Chandler smiles into his hair. 'It is—perhaps—a little bit irrational.'

'Not the same thing.' 

He's right, Chandler knows, but he just hums. Something yowls in the night, a faraway sound, and for the first time in his life Chandler’s glad to be here in this mess of sheets and body heat, even if his back’s starting to smart from being held at an awkward angle. Kent’s warm, regular breaths against his neck is balm enough for that. Slowly, Kent’s grip on Chandler’s shirt loosens so far for the embrace to be almost casual—if that was a thing they did—but he keeps his face hidden in Chandler’s shoulder until he strokes his palm in a soothing press across Chandler’s spine.

‘I’ll just—’ Kent says, disentangling his limbs from both Chandler’s grip and the twist of sheets. ‘Won’t be a minute.’

Kent moves through the darkened room with familiarity; he doesn’t catch the edge of the area rug or stub his toe on the chest of drawers. He somehow manages to disappear into the ensuite by switching on the light and shutting the door in one fluid movement, keeping the sudden brightness from accosting Chandler’s eyes for more than a brief moment. They’re apart for what feels like a long time; it probably isn't, time warps at night, stretches thick and thin like the darkness but all the while he can see the outline of light around the closed door. Chandler rolls onto his side, rubbing at his face and then letting his arm fall into the warmth Kent had left behind on the sheets, on the pillow. Water runs and is interrupted; the quiet rustle of a towel proves that Kent’s still there. Chandler knows, empirically, that he is, but the proof’s welcome.

He tips back the covers when the door opens, holds out an arm until he can wrap it around Kent’s form as he climbs back beside him. His skin’s cool, his hairline still a bit damp, and Chandler lets him press against him despite the dichotomy. Because of it. He may not be asleep but he’s slipped into something warm and comfortable so Chandlers slips onto his back, encouraging Kent to follow. He does, drawing the duvet up to his shoulders and curls around Chandler’s side, warm and cool all at once, and presses a kiss to the edge of Chandler’s shoulder across the seam of his t-shirt. Chandler returns it with one to Kent’s forehead.

The night settles upon them a little lighter than before. Chandler watches the flicker of shadows against the darkened ceiling, feeling how they interplay with the long flares of warmth that spread across his shoulder. Kent’s fingers idly play with the hem of Chandler’s top. On any other night, Chandler would have put it down to Kent’s usually restless fingers, but this time he suspects his mind’s more than a little restless as well. He can’t blame him for that.

‘Sorry about snapping,’ Kent says, swallowing to steady his voice. ‘I don’t want to—you don’t deserve it. I don’t mean it.’

Chandler shakes his head, brushing a hand through Kent’s hair. ‘It's been a trying week.'

That’s an understatement; it’s been a bruising week, one that would give even the most hardened of them the jitters. Chandler always finds it difficult to sleep—he’s never been the sort to fall asleep as soon as he hits the pillow, and it’s been worse ever since he became a policeman—but at least, when he does, he generally stays asleep. Kent had been right to warn him, even if he hasn’t been alarmed: on several occasions Chandler’s lain awake in the night, listening to Kent mumble in his sleep, feeling him flinch under his arm. He knows he must wake. He’s just never seen it happen before.

'It's not finished yet,’ Kent says, strangely pragmatic as he tucks his hand under Chandler’s ribs. 'And next week's not looking like it'll be much better.'

Chandler tries to look down at him and strains his eyes in the process. There are some things about Kent that he’ll never understand, and one of them is how he can decide—just decide, apparently—not to be bothered. He knows as much as anyone that it’s probably not as easy as it seems, that Kent is probably very much bothered, but the dichotomy’s very strange. Strange enough to worry him. He knows he shouldn’t—or maybe he should, he doesn’t know, he’s got nothing to compare this to—but he does.

'I'm sorry,’ he murmurs, quiet as a confession.

Kent smothers a chuckle in the small space between the pillows and Chandler’s shoulder, as if he knows he shouldn't be laughing about it but he does anyway. 'You didn't do it.'

But he did, didn’t he?

‘Miles is right. I should take more notice of the hours we’re working.’

Kent hums, pressing his chin against Chandler’s shoulder. ‘We’d kick up more of a fuss if we didn’t agree with you. It’s probably some sort of copper’s compulsion.’

Chandler smiles although neither of them can see. 

‘That being said,’ he murmurs, running his fingers across the line of slender muscle in Kent’s side. ‘I’m starting to see why it can be counterproductive.

‘If you’re using this as an example, then you should probably take into account that sometimes this happens for no apparent reason.’

‘Nightmares—’

‘I wouldn’t even call it that,’ Kent interrupts, picking up his head for a moment only to settle back against Chandler’s shoulder again. ‘It was just… unsettling.’ He swallows. ‘Unnerving.’

Chandler tightens his grip around Kent’s shoulders, drawing him in. He doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t know what to say; he deals in answers, in looking for answers, and he’s willing to guess that for this there aren’t any.

Kent speaks in a small voice, a hot, quiet whisper that Chandler’s not even sure he was supposed to hear. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

It must be for him, mustn’t it? Because he’s the only one there. Even then, Chandler finds it difficult to believe that anyone might find solace in whatever it is he does, or can do, or might do. If anything. Because he’s not doing much, is he? He’s never known what to do. He’d like to. He’d go on instinct but his instinct’s shot. All he can think to do is rub his thumb against the cap of Kent’s shoulder.

‘I’m glad I’m a step up from the loos.’ 

Kent breaks into a wide grin and shakes his head against Chandler’s arm. ‘ _Damn_ it, skip.’ 

For a frightening moment, Chandler wonders if Miles would agree, if his bed is better than the end cubicle. Chandler knows what he thinks—that it certifiably is and he’s willing to argue the point if it ever came to that—but he doesn’t really want to think about Miles thinking about this, about _them_ like this, so he doesn’t. Or, at least, he tries not to. He can tell what thought’s going to be creeping up on him tomorrow.

He sighs. ‘It’s something to commend me, at least.’ 

‘Not everything’s your fault, you know.’ Kent shifts closer and wraps an arm more firmly around Chandler’s ribcage. ‘Some things just… happen.’ 

It’s a cold comfort. The sheer instability of the world doesn’t still his mind, and Chandler can’t help but ask why. It’s his job to do so and he’s never been able to entirely switch off, has he? They know more than anyone that knowledge is power and Kent must want power over this. His mind. The subconscious. Chandler knows he’d take it in a heartbeat. 

‘It’s no wonder, really,’ he says, turning slightly against his pillow to glance at the head on his shoulder. ‘You’re in a strange place.’

‘No,’ Kent murmurs, sounding tired again now, though there’s a smile there. ‘No, I’m not.’

Chandler frowns at the ceiling, straining his vision to glance down towards Kent. His point is entirely viable—this is his flat, his bed, his part of London. Of course Kent might wake up in the middle of the night and find himself startled and disorientated. But apparently that isn’t the case and instead Kent curls his arm around Chandler’s middle, slides his fingers underneath the hem of his t-shirt and flattens his hand against his lower back.

Kent hums, pressing his nose to Chandler’s shoulder. ‘Here’s not strange.’ 

Chandler tips forward to press a kiss to the top of Kent’s head. He’d fully planned on staying awake until Kent’s breathing had evened out into the telltale rhythm of sleep, just in case, but the gentle, unconscious stroking of Kent’s fingers against his skin lulls him into a doze that even his best intentions can’t resist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: 31 July 2014.
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I can't believe we're eight chapters in already--it's gone so quickly! Thank you so, so much for all the lovely comments, kudos, and support. :)


	9. Chapter 9

Chandler should have taken more heed of Riley’s significant look when he’d said he was just going to check in with Ed. He’s never seen the poor man look so harassed. If he was in any sort of state to carry on with his usual theatrics, he’d probably say that the books have got the better of him. Except they usually have, and this is a few steps beyond that. They’ll probably stage a coup when Ed’s not looking.

‘You all right, Ed?’ he asks, stepping a little further into the room and over a pile of paperbacks.

‘I will be,’ Ed mutters, flicking through the stack of papers at his elbow. ‘When I’ve found what I’m looking for.’

‘I thought you had this place filed to within an inch of its life.’

The archivist tuts and doesn’t look up from his work. ‘It’s not much help when I don’t know what I’m looking for.’

Chandler frowns, noting the untouched cup of tea perilously close to the edge of the desk. ‘We haven’t made any changes to the criteria, Ed. We’re still working from the same assumptions.’

It’s at that moment that Ed looks up and over his shoulder at where Chandler’s stranded between a bookcase and what he thinks is a brand new box of files. He removes his glasses with a slightly dazed expression and mirrors Chandler’s frown for a split second before it breaks into sudden understanding. 

‘Oh, yes, I am aware—there are some more papers for you to look through, Joe, though I’m not sure how much good they’ll do.’ He gestures over to the chair he’s not sat in, the one Chandler usually would have taken if they weren’t apparently in the middle of a battleground. ‘I’ve made notes of the relevant points. What I think may be relevant, actually. They may not be.’

Chandler can understand his backtracking. Nothing’s looking like it’s relevant, historical or modern.

‘So, what’s…’

‘Oh, this?’ Ed turns back to the pages in front of him with a sort of half-grimace. ‘My own project. I’ve mentioned I’m working on another book.’

‘Considering, you said, actually.’

‘Yes, well, I’ve been working on it off and on for a while. I was doing some extra reading this morning—getting reacquainted with what’s already been said on the subject, you know—when I came across what I think is some incorrect information.’

‘And…?’

If he’s honest Chandler can’t see how on earth that could have caused all this. Surely Ed could just Google this fact, if that’s all he wants to double check. 

‘Well, it directly contradicts another argument that I’ve come across in my research, and I wanted to verify whether they were both reached using the same information or not, but I seem to have misplaced where I wrote down the paper’s title. And the author’s name. And where I found it.’

Looking around them both, Chandler’s not surprised. Ed’s never been the picture of organizational precision. Of course, he’s generally always managed to muddle through, but now isn’t a particularly good time to be testing that conclusion. 

‘Ah.’ He tries to rein in his unease. ‘Does it… have to be that specific?’ Chandler can’t help but feel that perhaps Ed should put his own work aside for a while, just like they all are upstairs, at least until they’ve got something concrete to work on with this case. ‘I was under the impression that there aren’t any right answers when it comes to historical debate.’

Ed pauses, looks at a crack in the wall, then shifts his gaze to Chandler’s face. ‘Of course history has no right answers. That doesn’t mean there are no wrong ones.’

Chandler finds himself frowning. ‘You’ll have to enlighten me, Ed.’

‘You’ve got to be working from the right facts,’ Ed says with an exasperated sigh, wafting a hand across the papers littered on the surface of his desk. ‘The _correct_ ones.’ 

The frown doesn’t go; he’d half expected it to, to be honest, but there’s something about that implication that makes Chandler think. Makes him reconsider his own desk, his own mess of papers that he’s confined to a file and an overflow tray. They have pages upon pages of information, whiteboard upon whiteboard with both sides covered, yet how much of that have they guaranteed is correct? They’ve been trusting the original investigations; in some places they have to—even a five year gap often means that some of the players have met with their own demise, and their widest is nearing on a decade longer than that—but where they haven’t, they’ve taken detail as fact.

Chandler’s not used to leafing through his colleagues’ investigations. He’ll wade through historical ones easily, and he’ll learn the successes and mistakes of inquiries launched fifty years ago, but when he’s almost sure he’s dined with a couple of these DIs in the past it’s a little more difficult. He glares at their mistakes and wonders if someone’s going to do the same to his, one day.

They probably already have.

He forces down the slight wave of nausea that comes with that revelation and redoubles his focus on Ed and the papers strewn about his desk. He’s crumpling a page of his own notes under his elbow as he marks lines on another with a pencil tick and Chandler forces his hands back into his pockets.

‘What if you can’t be sure?’ Chandler asks,  ‘What if you don’t know?’

‘Oh, there’s plenty not to be sure about.’ Ed says, looking up but only for a moment. He turns back to his work with a shrug. ‘What you’ve got to be sure about is what you do know.’ He says it as if it’s that simple. ‘You can’t get anywhere with erroneous assumptions.’

Chandler’s starting to think that his entire adult life has been a series of erroneous assumptions, but as Ed suddenly gets up and pushes past him, making for the shelves, he can’t help but let the idea germinate. What do they actually know? It’s a bit of an existential question, phrased like that, but it applies, doesn’t it? They need to make connections, some mental leaps—it’s what they’re trained to do. But how many of them have they inadvertently accepted as fact?

He’s not sure if the feeling he’s nursing is strictly gratitude, but Chandler throws a ‘Thanks, Ed,’ over his shoulder as he walks back towards the stairs; he might get a disembodied ‘My pleasure, Joe,’ in return, but he’s not sure about that, either.

*

Chandler catches Miles just as they’re about to pass each other through the doorway. The sergeant’s probably on his way to pilfer more milk from the canteen—they get through a ridiculous amount of the stuff on cases like this, and Chandler’s sure it’s probably Miles topping the leaderboard in hot drink consumption—and for a moment Chandler considers letting him do that before issuing his next order. Then again, he’s well aware that what he’s got in mind is the sort of thing that might not even be softened by tea.

‘Miles,’ he says, voice appropriately clipped. 

‘Boss?’

Best do it like ripping off a plaster.

‘I want everything checked again,’ he says, indicating the words and pictures on the board with an extended hand. ‘Every fact. Everything we think we know.’

Miles regards him with an incredulous eye. ‘You’ve gone mad.’ 

‘No, I’ve not.’ (He probably has but now’s not the time.) ‘We won’t get anywhere if we’ve got something wrong. Overlooked something.’

‘You?’ The sergeant lets out a short, barking laugh that startles a passing PC. ‘Getting a detail out of line?’

Chandler lets out a sigh. ‘It happens.’

‘Where would we start?’ Miles asks, shaking his head and glancing over one shoulder towards the plethora of information they’ve been dancing around for days.

‘From the beginning. The Poplar remains, then move on chronologically.’ Chandler pauses, backtracking, trying to take his own advice. ‘Actually, focus on Brown, too. There’s likely more to be found there.’ He’s the only body they’ve still got, after all. ‘Is the blood back yet?’

‘No. I can pester Llewellyn but I’ll probably just get a stern look for my troubles.’

Chandler tuts, impatient. ‘Don’t let anyone go over their own work. We need fresh eyes, not egos.’

Miles nods, although he adds, ‘They’re not going to like this,’ in a dark tone that speaks of experience.

‘That doesn’t particularly matter.’ Chandler says, keeping his own inflection level. ‘It’s an order.’

The sergeant shoots him a half-amused look that Chandler learnt long ago isn’t anything to do with insubordination. ‘And what are you going to do while we’re working our socks off?’

Chandler sighs again, deflating a little as he recalls that morning’s meeting. ‘Speaking to the Chief Super, trying to buy us more time.’

‘For what?’

‘He wants to go to press. Thinks tips from the public are the only way we’ll get anywhere with a case like this.’

Miles curses, and Kent looks up with a slight start from where he’s sat with a phone lodged between his ear and shoulder. Chandler catches his eye accidentally and he’s no idea what to tell him. If anything. His face can only do so much, after all, and whatever Kent’s waiting for on the phone must arrive because he turns back to the surface of his desk with a polite greeting and a pen poised for action.

‘Christ,’ Miles continues, regardless. ‘We won’t know whether we’re coming or going.’

‘And we’ll start wasting what little time we have on press conferences.’

‘I hate press conferences.’

‘I know,’ Chandler admits, because they’re about the only things that actually make Miles sound petulant. ‘It’s plain to see. I’d prefer to avoid them unless absolutely necessary.’

Miles grumbles his way around a, ‘Much obliged.’ 

Chandler wears a tired, apologetic smile. ‘Either way, if we aren’t absolutely sure that everything we’re looking at is the truth, when we have to start wading through tips…’

‘All right, all right,’ Miles mutters, holding up his hands in mock defeat. ‘Clear off before I tell them, then. I don’t want a mutiny on my hands. And I’ve had enough of dragging you out of fights.’

It’s Chandler turn to concede. He’s tempted to say he doesn’t particularly want to be dragged out of any more scuffles—or be in them at all, for that matter—but the situation’s not right. He doubts that even Mansell could keep up his usual running commentary of jokes faced with the workload Chandler’s just handed them. But what has to be done has to be done, and it’s not often that Chandler gets dictatorial. Or at least, he hopes not. He is supposed to be working with a _team_ , after all. 

‘Oh, and boss?’

Miles’ voice draws Chandler back into the room at large; he finds the sergeant regarding him with a carefully blank expression that usually means he’s up to something. Chandler approaches the inevitable question with a wary expression of his own.

‘What?’

‘Check in with Kent at some point this afternoon, will you?’ He jerks a thumb in the man’s direction, just in case Chandler’s forgotten which one he is. ‘He’s starting to look worried.’

Chandler doesn’t actually have to say anything for Miles to be satisfied that he’s done his duty. It’s probably all he can do not to wink at them both as he walks away.

‘God,’ Chandler mutters as he turns towards reception, and it’s only half exasperated this time. ‘It’s like there’s two of you.’ 

‘There always has been, boss,’ Miles calls after him, vague enough not to raise suspicion through the knowing chuckle.

*

‘I got us a few days,’ Chandler says to the room at large, shutting his eyes to block out the image of his flat. ‘That’s all. A few days.’

He lets Kent tease the empty glass out of his fingers, but he only uses his freed hand to apply pressure to the bridge of his nose. For a moment he hopes Kent will ask if he wants another, because it feels like one of those nights, but he isn’t particularly disappointed when the offer doesn’t come. It’s probably best if he doesn’t have too much vodka in one sitting. Not after last time.

‘What did you expect?’ is the question that comes when the kitchen tap stops running.

Chandler shrugs. ‘I’m not sure. Something.’ He sighs and pinches harder. ‘Something better than that.’

He knows they don’t particularly deserve a lucky break, since they never seem to be able to use them for what they’re worth. But it’s Miles who has an occasional urge to rabbit on about that sort of thing, not him, and Kent’s walking towards him with a gentle pace that suggests he’s going to try something. In that way he does. In the past it would have worried him. It still does, in a corner of his mind, but the rest of him waits with a sort of warm expectation.

Kent wraps his fingers around Chandler’s wrist and lifts his hand away from his face. Chandler lets the limb go limp, lets himself be maneuvered. He lets his head drop back against the top of the sofa cushion, lets Kent encourage him to rest the weight of his skull against his stomach. He can never quite allow himself enjoy this properly; there’s always some degree of guilt, of an indelible urge to work until he solves the problem (saves the day), but Kent presses his fingers in small circles against Chandler’s temples and he can’t help but think he can justify letting his eyes slip shut.

Just for a moment, he promises himself, but it feels like an age before either of them speaks again.

‘Loose ends still have uses.’

Chandler opens his eyes, looks up at Kent gazing down at him. ‘What?’

‘God knows Miles did it a hundred times, with all the DIs he saw off before you stuck.’ Kent lets his hands trails across Chandler’s skull as he speaks, runs his fingers through his hair. ‘If he wanted more time to look at something, or less interference—they were always quick to ring up Head Desk, you know, in each other’s pockets—and there was a decent loose end we hadn’t got around to tying off yet…’ 

‘Are you sure you should be telling me this?’ Chandler asks in a low voice, turning into Kent’s palm.

There’s a gentle chuckle that Chandler feels as well as hears; he smiles against Kent’s lifeline.

‘Trust me, you would have hated these blokes, too.’

Chandler huffs out his own laugh. ‘I probably went to school with them.’

‘Doesn’t mean you like them,’ Kent murmurs, sliding his thumb back and forth against Chandler’s jaw.  ‘Trust me, I’d know.’ 

The degree of veiled certainty in Kent’s words makes Chandler open his eyes for a second time. He turns to search out Kent’s gaze and is only mildly disappointed when Kent’s hand falls away from his head to his shoulder, sliding to rest against his chest. His heartbeat thumps against Kent’s fingers.

‘Em—’

‘Anyway, what I was saying,’ Kent interrupts, his expression pointedly professional. ‘If we had loose ends and we could make a case for keeping the public out, then we’d do it.’

Chandler sighs heavily, sinking against the cushions and Kent’s touch as if they were warm sand. He’s resigned to feeling hopeless for the time being.

‘So we either find something new, or we find something in our own files.’ 

‘No need to sound so dejected,’ Kent says, bending to press a kiss to Chandler’s temple. ‘That’s two more options than you thought you had.’

Chandler huffs and doesn’t move even as Kent stands up straight again and walks away from the back of the sofa. He supposes that Kent’s right, those are two more options, but he doesn’t particularly want them. They aren’t great. Knowing him he probably won’t be able to manage either of them. Some very deep, very pessimistic part of him wonders if there’s anything to be found at all—new or old—but Kent reappears at the arm of the furniture and before he’s manages to pick his head up Kent’s dropped back into the cushions next to him.

‘Did you have anything particular in mind?’ he asks, hoping in vain.

Kent gestures with a notebook in his hands then leans towards the closest light to read the lettering. ‘I don’t know yet.’

Chandler peers at the leather-bound pages and finally sits up, straight-backed and reassuringly stunned. ‘Is that evidence?’ 

‘It’s Alexandra Cartwright’s diary,’ Kent says, sneaking a smile over his shoulder. ‘So yes, it’s technically evidence.’

‘That’s not supposed to leave the incident room.’

‘You’ve got David Brown’s appointment book.’

Chandler tries to say something to that but finds he’s got no excuse. He can’t even pull rank for that.

‘Point taken,’ he says, glancing away from Kent’s face for a moment before giving in and asking, ‘Anything?’

‘Riley’s read it cover to cover about twice.’ Kent sighs and shifts back towards Chandler, flicking through the pages at a pace that’s too fast for either of them to catch anything. ‘It’s all appointments with her thesis supervisor and plans for what work she has to get done that day. Either she didn’t go out much or she was a lot more casual about deciding to go out for drinks than she was about perfecting her introduction.’ 

Chandler sighs and presses his fingers against his eyes. ‘As you would, I suppose.’

‘Hmm,’ Kent says, the warm sound an agreement without words having to make it clear. ‘Any luck on your end?’ 

‘No.’

Kent’s mouth curves into a smothered smile. ‘The optimism abounds.’

Chandler lets his hand slip until he’s pressing at the line of his jaw, trying to work some of the tension free. ‘It’s like sitting here with Miles.’

Kent makes an odd sound in his throat. ‘I hope you don’t let Miles take you to bed.’

‘ _Em_ ,’ Chandler breathes, letting his hand fall away completely this time.

(He’s almost worried that somehow, the evidence will also be evidence of this conversation. Item A-34 might have a b-side. It’s irrational and impossible, he knows, but he’s long been suspicious of words on paper.) 

‘Sorry,’ Kent says, sneaking a glance and fighting a choke of laughter, ‘but I saw an opportunity and took it.’

Chandler shakes his head, smiling despite himself. ‘You are turning into him.’

He doesn’t particularly expect an immediate response, but when one doesn’t arrive, it does strike him as odd. Chandler looks to Kent, searching, and finds him regarding him with a soft expression, his thoughts obviously contemplative.

Kent gives a long sigh. ‘Skip thinks I’m turning into you.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘Oh, the usual. I must have thought about Keats in his presence. Or sneezed into a tissue instead of my sleeve.’ He grins, then shrugs after a moment of consideration. ‘I think the breaking point must have been when we ran out of mugs and I had to make do with a teacup and saucer for the afternoon.’

Chandler chuckles softly. ‘I did wonder.’ 

‘It’s quite good actually. Somewhere to put your biscuit.’ He looks quite pleased about that revelation until a half-horrified expression clouds his features. ‘Don’t tell Mansell I said that.’

There’s such honest concern in that sentence that Chandler can’t help but smile as he nods even if it is partly a joke. Because Mansell would latch on to the idea like a dog would to a particularly good stick and none of them need that. Though perhaps he could learn a thing or two. Sometimes Chandler wonders if it’ll be the crumbs that’ll finally send him mad.

‘Skip mustn’t have noticed,’ Kent continues, fingers stroking absentmindedly across the diary’s rounded corners, ‘because I’ve always been like this.’ 

‘I know.’

(He says it, and he means it, but Chandler knows now what all those looks had meant. Miles had warned him. Kent had got more like him, and they both feared it’d be to his detriment. But it’s there, isn’t it, the basis? They might not be cut from the exact same cloth, but similar enough.)

‘Yeah, I know.’ Kent looks up from the diary and glances towards Chandler with a self-conscious smile. ‘That’s why we got on.’

Chandler thinks it’s a little more than that, really, but a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. For once Kent’s gaze lingers over it, snags somewhere, and Chandler almost asks if there’s something on his face when Kent reaches out with one hand, using the other to mark his place in the diary, and rests his fingers against the knot of Chandler’s tie. He’d loosened it when he’d got in, out of habit more than anything, but Kent’s eyes are soft as he twists his fingers and undoes another button.

‘You’re not going to try and work all night, are you?’

Chandler thinks about the appointment book, the indecipherable case notes, the remains with no name, his insatiable sense of guilt and duty and the throbbing behind his eyes, and says, ‘No.’

Kent cocks his head. ‘No?’

‘No.’ Chandler pushes himself to his feet, ignoring how his bones creak, how getting up is more of a heave when he’s tired. ‘We’ll look at everything with fresh eyes tomorrow. There’s nothing more we can do tonight.’

‘You waited until late in the day to say that,’ Kent says, hiding a smile.

He probably waited until a little late in life to say it, actually. He’s never been good at putting anything to bed, himself included, but this time he just inclines his head and Kent follows, no questions asked. They’re getting better at this. Or, well, it appears as if they are, but Chandler still feels the same frisson of preemptive embarrassment because he’s bound to get something wrong. Whether or not Kent’s hand’s migrated to the small of his back’s irrelevant. Whether or not the way he reaches for Chandler’s shoulder, holding them face to face for a moment in the low light of the bedroom, can be taken as a reassurance.

(Chandler’s never entirely sure. He always hopes it can.)

‘You’ll stay?’

Kent nods.

‘You’ll get sick of me yet,’ Chandler says, the thought slithering out of his mouth before he really registers he’s thought it.

(Except he has. He often does. He thinks it about all of them, really, but most often about Kent.)

Kent shoots him a sharp look, one that says he’s said something stupid again. He probably has but that doesn’t mean it can’t also be true. But the look doesn’t last and it’s a warning shot, not an opening one. 

‘You’d be surprised,’ he says, nimbly slipping his fingers down Chandler’s chest, pushing the top button free, ‘how much I can put up with.’

Chandler lets Kent undo the rest of his shirt buttons, because that statement should have been an extension of his previous pessimism but Kent’s smiling and there is something in those words, some meaning, some promise. It’s not right, is it? Those aren’t the _right_ words but they’re their words and, for once, Chandler thinks they might make sense. Maybe. They still strike on something tender in Chandler’s chest.

‘You’re not going to try and make the argument that it’s technically tomorrow morning once it’s past midnight, are you?’ Kent asks, averting his eyes as he trails touch along Chandler’s collarbone, ghosting and light.

Chandler shakes his head with a soft, ‘No,’ and tilts Kent’s chin up so he can press a kiss to the bridge of his nose.

Kent smiles a little. ‘Because that would be pushing it a bit far. Even for me.’

‘You came up with the excuse,’ Chandler says, mirroring the expression although he’s sure it’s watery in comparison. ‘Shouldn’t have told me. I’ll keep it in mind, now.’

‘Don’t try on Mansell’s sense of humour for size.’ Kent fixes him with a stern look that’s betrayed by a playfulness in his eyes. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’

Chandler’s sure it doesn’t; the tone feels wrong in his mouth. He doesn’t know why he tried, or if he even did. It’s late, and with a belated start he realises he’s tired and it’s been a long day. He hadn’t quite realised before. It hasn’t hit him, not until Kent looks up at him with that expression and Chandler knows, deep down, that the fatigue in his face is for the both of them. God knows why.

He’s not always sure he understands why Kent cares—or why he should continue to do so—but Chandler understands now that he’s glad Kent does.

* 

‘Sir!’

The familiar voice fights its way through the fray of sound. Chandler abhors the lunch rush, when everyone’s under each other’s feet for no apparent reason, but he still manages to find himself peering in the direction of the sound, trying to spot the face that he recognises. Well, recognises more than all the others. He’s probably had dealings with most of the officers in the building by now.

It’s when Mansell manoeuvres through, coaxing people out the way with a sheet of photocopies and an expression that’s too animated even for him that Chandler begins to think that all this annoyance might just be worth something.

‘Sorry, mate,’ Mansell says, nodding apologetically to the PC he’s just jostled. ‘Boss?’

‘Mansell?’

‘I’ve just been on the phone to Roger Jameson.’

Chandler feels as if the world stills a little. Not entirely, but a little. 

‘They lived in the house in Poplar,’ he says, trying to jump ahead and fit the pieces together.

Mansell nods. ‘Yeah, leased the ground floor flat when it was still a flat.’

The details come back to Chandler in a rush. ‘1995 to 1998.’

‘That’s right. Except they didn’t live there in ’98.’

‘But they’re on the lease until mid-December.’

Chandler can picture the page although he hasn’t seen it in a few days, the names and the dates. The signatures. They’re all there, as they should be. The ink had even been tested; archival quality, tamper-proof. None of that can be wrong, can it? If it is Chandler’s starting to doubt the way the world works.

‘It wouldn’t have been on the record.’ Mansell’s practically grinning now, and for once it’s not for an entirely inane reason. ‘He subleased the flat without notifying the landlord.’

‘Why didn’t we hear about this the first time?’ Chandler asks, frowning. ‘It’s not something you just forget, is it?’

Mansell scoffs. ‘Conveniently forgot, perhaps. Although I’ve yet to meet a CID team that’s bothered about a bit of unlawful subletting.’

It isn’t as if they could do anything about it now, either; it’s been a decade and from what Chandler can remember of the paperwork the Jamesons haven’t lived in London since before the millennium. It’s all water under the bridge now. Though, if he stops and thinks about it, perhaps Chandler can understand the paranoia. It’d probably itch at his mind, too.

‘Who took on the flat, then?’ he asks, pushing on.

‘Well, that’s the kicker, sir.’ Mansell flashes another toothy smile. ‘You might owe the skipper a tenner.’ 

Chandler thinks it’s probably more likely that Mansell owes Miles that bet, because he certainly doesn’t, and misery’s supposed to love company. Either way he knows what’s coming now and it’s virtually an example of Pavlov’s dogs now, his reaction to good news. It only has to be implied for the adrenaline to start. This is what he comes in everyday for, isn’t it? Another chance to get it right?

So when Mansell leans in, offering him a view of his scrawled handwriting, Chandler takes it.

‘He says he only felt comfortable leasing it because the fella was a clergyman. Trustworthy, like. And he’s not entirely sure but he’s fairly confident that the guy’s name was Harding.’

Chandler suddenly hears the rush of his blood in his ears over the murmur of the crowd milling about the front desk; even the shrill tone of the phone going seems a little further away. It might be shock, this feeling, but the taste in his mouth’s certainly anticipation. He falls over himself to think clearly, to choose where to begin. They’ve not had this many options in weeks and it’s a little heady to think of them all. 

‘Was there anything on paper?’

‘Unfortunately, no,’ Mansell says, almost wincing as he does, ‘and he paid with cash most of the time.’

Chandler rubs at his forehead, stepping slightly out of the way to avoid elbowing another young PC. ‘Damn.’

‘But Jameson thinks there may have been one or two payments by cheque. Something about a boiler going. He’s getting on to his bank now, and he’s going to go through his own records. If he finds anything, he’ll let us know.’

‘Good.’ Chandler feels a rush of relief that’s probably not warranted; they haven’t got anywhere yet, he reminds himself. ‘Any timeframe?’

‘By end of day, hopefully. Tomorrow at the latest if there’s anything to be found.’

Chandler’s not entirely comforted by that promise; there’s too much that can go wrong, there’s always too much that can go wrong, and he’d rather have their people on it whenever possible. They know where to look, after all, but time’s at a premium and perhaps if they can avoid the bureaucracy of interdepartmental requests then they might get something to work with. And that’s all Chandler’s asking for. _Something_.

‘See if there’s any link to Harding in any of the other cases,’ he says, voice sharper than it has been in days. ‘Anything at all. I don’t care how distant it is—if it’s there, I want to know about it.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Bring him in, as well. As soon as he’s able.’ He side-steps for a moment to let someone with a tray of coffees past, then says, ‘Say it’s to do with his statement from that GBH.' 

‘D’you want an interview room booked?’

Chandler considers for a moment, then shakes his head. Mansell narrows his mouth and nods in a sage way that doesn’t exactly suit him; for a moment Chandler wonders what Kent would make of that. They seem to be swapping mannerisms, don’t they?

He shakes the feeling off and refocuses on the task at hand. ‘No, we don’t want to spook him.’

‘Just sizing him up, then, sir?’ 

‘Just tell him we want to run through his statement again. Don’t let on that we’re working on these cases, or that St Oswald’s has already been handed over.’

Mansell lets out a short sigh. ‘It’s a good job he’s not rung up and asked for a progress report.’

‘It’d best get done soon, then,’ Chandler says, implying something ominous with his tone. ‘Before he does.’

If they were running against the clock before then they definitely are now. That’s probably why Mansell says, ‘Aye aye, sir,’ with a little less sarcasm than usual and actually plucks a pen from his pocket to write that order down, scrawled at the corner of the page in his hand. Chandler doesn’t make the usual fuss about it either because they both know those years are within the window for when that body was put there. It’s not perfect, they can’t and won’t have the information to narrow it down any further than they already have, but for the first time Chandler dares to think that they might not have to. Maybe he can learn something from Kent’s optimism. One of his _two more options_ actually came up with something useable.

‘I’ll get right on it, boss,’ Mansell says.

Chandler nods, taking his leave, and he almost manages a full step away from their conversation when he thinks of something else.

‘And tell Kent to meet me in my office,’ he adds, turning in an afterthought. ‘I want to go over what he found out about Harding’s background.’

‘He’s gone to lunch, but I’ll let him know, sir.’

‘Actually—’ Chandler stops for a moment, then decides it’s probably safe to ask. ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

‘Canteen, probably.’ Mansell shrugs. ‘If not, then the coffee shop on the corner. I think he’s been living on cappuccinos and you can’t get a decent one in this building.’

For once, Chandler agrees with him. On all counts. But he’s not even going to mention the fact that he knows exactly which coffee shop Mansell’s referencing, even though the constable’s regarding him with a look that says he suspects he doesn’t. 

‘Right,’ he says, looking through the glass doors towards the street. ‘Have you told Miles?’

Mansell shakes his head, indicating past Chandler’s shoulder towards the incident room doors. ‘I was just on my way to him when I ran into you, sir.’

‘Let everyone know, then,’ Chandler says, standing aside to let him through. ‘We’ll need all hands on deck.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Mansell winks. ‘You can trust me to divvy up the jobs.’

Chandler shoots him an unimpressed look. ‘I won’t be that long.’

*

Chandler would have preferred to speak to Harding that evening, but even the most persuasive phrasing couldn’t have convinced the man that he could drop everything and come in. The best he could do was the next morning, he was afraid, and Chandler’s starting to not like his tone. Though perhaps that’s just what they know colouring his preemptive characterisation. Then again, Miles could be right. He often is. 

But they don’t know yet, and there’s protocol to follow if any of this—right or wrong—is going to stand up in court, so Chandler lets himself be talked into leaving the station at the usual clocking off time. Miles must be revising his battle plans every weekend because he even got Kent to help him this time, though from the look on the younger man’s face he knew he was a pawn in some sort of scheme. In the end the sergeant had thrown Chandler’s keys in Kent’s direction, and although it was probably against instructions Kent pressed them back into his hand as soon as Miles had left the room.

‘Though, if you don’t mind,’ he’d said, inclining his head just that little too closely for colleagues, ‘I’ll make sure you actually get home.’

And if his smile’s a little tight, then Chandler doesn’t take much notice. It’s probably just something to do with Miles’ meddling.

So they fill Chandler’s two-bed flat to its intended occupancy, although the office is still an office and Chandler’s bedroom is theirs, now. Once Kent had said he doesn’t like the empty houses, the sense that there’s no one there. That there should be and there’s not; they might be there, strictly speaking, but they aren’t. Not anymore. Chandler had lost any sense of spirituality long ago but he can still empathise; no matter what the rest of them say he’s still human, isn’t he? That particular sort of reverence has to be intrinsically human. He gets the same sort of thing in reverse: he’s not used to there being someone on the other side of a wall, someone in the next room who’s meant to be there, who should be there, who’s just getting on with their life in the same space and same time as he is. Chandler’s come to like it. He doesn’t even have to hear Kent to know he’s there anymore.

Chandler emerges from the ensuite, blotting his skin dry even after he’s pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms. He rarely does anything absent-mindedly but he wanders through the flat in a manner that could be called that; perhaps there is something calming in the brief spell of hope Mansell’s brought them. It’ll all be broken when they confirm the information, or disprove it. And for once, instead of counting down the hours, trying to keep his thoughts from impinging on his musing on the case, Chandler feels like searching Kent out.

He finds him stood in the kitchen, back to the living room and one hand resting along the edge of the counter. Nothing about that is strictly out of place, not even the quietness that’s only interrupted by the television faintly telling them that there’ll be an increased chance of rainfall in the northeast tomorrow. It’s the stance of anyone who’s waiting for the kettle to boil, really. Except the kettle’s not even on, and it’s the forced faux-relaxation in Kent’s fingers that makes Chandler frown. He’s seen that before but he can’t place exactly where. (He’s got his suspicions and they confirm his self-evaluation of his behaviour that year as appalling.)

Chandler purposely makes more noise than necessary as he walks through the room, closer to Kent. He knows he has a habit of moving more or less silently—he’s made Miles, of all people, jump once or twice, and considering Kent’s experience he doesn’t want to ambu—surprise, _surprise_ —him.

(It’s too late to be taking care like this, Chandler knows, but it’s the best he can do. He’s making up for past mistakes in the only way he knows how.)

Kent stands with his fingers clasped, like a claw, around his upper thigh, a half-drunk glass of water and a bottle of pills on the counter in front of him. The only sound that escapes him a hiss when he shifts his weight; Chandler hopes desperately that the attempted silence isn’t for his benefit. It needn’t be. He can understand, can’t he? He may be astounded everyday that someone can be unobtrusive and fit into his life, his space, so seemingly easily but that doesn’t mean he wants Kent to force himself to keep quiet. Not if he’s in pain. Not if it’s pain that Chandler knows he’s responsible for, somewhere down the line of blame. No matter what anyone says.

‘Em?’ he asks, voice gentle. 

Kent turns his head with a little start, his mouth holding a tension that might be half-prepared for words. None come out. 

In the end he just says, ‘It’s all right.’

Chandler doesn’t think it’s all right. It’s certainly not. He doesn’t say so, though, because the set of Kent’s mouth tells him not to. He still wants to—almost enough to pull rank, to make Kent tell him the truth. But it doesn’t always have to be said, does it? All he needs to do is look; it’s all he can do, apparently. His gaze catches on the painkillers, the garish, translucent colour against the pale, neutral backdrop of his kitchen. Kent follows his line of sight and almost immediately Chandler wishes he knows the words to say—the ones that’ll work—because his face can’t be trusted to give the right impression. 

‘Oh, these are mine. Prescription,’ Kent says quickly, as if he wants to hide the information even as he says it. The pills rattle around in their bottle as he slowly wraps his fingers around the plastic. ‘I may have got through the first round of painkillers rather quickly.’

Chandler winces as he realises what Kent means. Those are leftovers, what he hadn’t taken at the time. When the wound was still fresh. He’s vaguely concerned about the expiry date when it sinks in that Kent’s telling him, admitting in an oblique way, that he had come back too soon. Pushed himself too hard, medicated himself to do his job. For a moment Chandler can’t believe he never noticed, until he remembers that he’d done the same, hadn’t he?

Kent smiles, his expression distant and tight. ‘Sciatica. It flares up now and then.’ 

For some reason, Chandler says, ‘Oh.’ As if that’s all right, then. If it’s got a name. Except he doesn’t feel any of that and as Kent hisses again, attempted some unknown movement, Chandler reaches out almost without thinking about it. It’s instinctual, now.

‘Don’t make a fuss.’ Kent unhooks his fingers from his leg and waves him away. ‘I just want to get on with it.’

Chandler gathers him to his chest, well aware that he’s going against what Kent’s said. He takes a deep breath that echoes against Chandler’s sternum, as if he’s still going to try and lecture him, but Kent lets the breath go all at once and wraps his arms around Chandler, his hands linked and resting at the small of his back.

He sighs again, resigned this time, breath warm against Chandler’s skin. ‘You always were stubborn.’

‘Only about the things that matter.’

Kent huffs a laugh at that and relaxes a little—as much as he probably can—and he nestles a little closer to Chandler’s chest, their skin sticking. It’s when he sucks in another breath and his grip digs into Chandler’s muscle that Chandler runs a hand up and down Kent’s spine, though from the way Kent presses his forehead to the bone of Chandler’s shoulder he can’t tell if it does much good at all. 

‘Can I apologise?’ Chandler asks, pressing a kiss to the top of Kent’s head. ‘Just once.’

There’s a moment of stillness, then Kent nods, silent, his chin catching on Chandler’s collarbone.

‘Because I am—I am sorry.’ 

‘I know,’ Kent says, voice thick as he suddenly uncurls his hold and turns away from Chandler. ‘I just don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me.’

Chandler suppresses the urge to reach out and clasp Kent’s wrist in his hand, pull him back close. ‘I wouldn’t dare.’

The sound that comes out of Kent’s mouth is halfway between a tut and some sort of dismissive laugh. It’s a painful sound; Chandler doesn’t want to hear it but knows that perhaps he has to. Perhaps he deserves to. He is sorry. He is. He’s just never really been sure how to show it. How he’s allowed to prove it.

‘Don’t patronise me,’ Kent says, not turning to look at him, not even as Chandler walks to follow his movement.

He’s aware that he probably isn’t going about this the right way, he doesn’t want to crowd or trap but he’s working on instinct, intuition. There’s some forgotten anger wrapped around Kent’s larynx and Chandler doubts that either of them know who that’s really for, but it’s there, and there’s something desperate about the threatening melancholia. Chandler doesn’t even care if that’s all coming from him, his own paranoia, if he’s desperate then he’s desperate and Kent should _know_ , shouldn’t he?

‘I’m not.’ Chandler takes Kent’s head between his hands and kisses him softly, pressing close so that Kent rests his hands against Chandler’s chest. ‘I promise, I’m not.’

Kent tries to fix him with a look that’s probably disbelieving but their features are too close for focusing. Chandler strokes a thumb across Kent’s cheekbone then wonders if that undermines everything he’s just said, if perhaps he is being patronising, if perhaps that is his default range of action. He doesn’t want it to be. He just wants Kent to _know_ and he can’t find the words to tell him, can’t find what it is he wants to tell him. Something. As if words will fix this.

‘This is what I mean,’ Kent says, softly, curling his fingers against Chandler’s stomach. He doesn’t pull away, though, and Chandler feels like sighing in relief. ‘You go all soft.’ He curls his lip in a silent wince as he lays his palms flat, strokes across Chandler’s sides, his back. ‘You _linger_ over it when I just want to forget it.’

Chandler averts his gaze, lets his hands drop away. ‘I do that.’ 

‘I know,’ Kent says, too quickly as he reaches back to curl his fingers around Chandler’s wrist. He licks his lips, unsure, but his voice is as steady as he can make it. ‘It’s all right, I suppose, but could you… could you try, please? To forget about it?’

Oh, how Chandler wishes he could. He wishes Kent could, wishes that none of it had ever happened. He has enough regrets about that case without counting the horrible flash of white terror that coursed through him when he’d seen Kent on that stretcher, with his own blood on his hands. If he could forget that, he would, for all of their sakes.

(The hitch in Kent’s voice, the interruption of his careful words, is reminder enough.)

He shouldn’t have enough room in his brain for all of this. For everything. For his own problems, his past, the cases, the names and faces and photographs that never quite leave him alone, for Kent and the mystery he poses all on his own, for the nights spent both alone and in company and with just as many thoughts either way. He probably doesn’t. Maybe that’s why he can’t always control it. Maybe it’s trying to tell him.

It doesn’t matter. He won’t listen.

But he can try to listen to Kent—the words he says, the question in his eyes. So Chandler nods, mouth narrowed and half-unhappy, but he agrees. He may be used to giving orders, but he hasn’t always done that. He’s used to complying, even if he is a little rusty.

Kent cranes his neck to catch Chandler’s eye again. ‘Really?’

‘I can’t guarantee it.’ 

‘No, I know you can’t.’ He shifts his grip to Chandler’s hand, twists their fingers together. ‘I wouldn’t ask you to.’ 

Chandler swallows and half-wishes they were sitting down to have this conversation. ‘I understand, I do, I just—’

‘Practice and theory are different?’

He hums in agreement.

Kent huffs and Chandler can’t tell if it’s because of what they’re saying or because of the pain, but he leans forward and presses a kiss to Kent’s forehead, resting close enough to murmur, ‘I’ll do my best.’ 

And he does his best to start now, untangling their fingers and stepping away. He swallows and clears his throat, feeling a little awkward; he notices now he knows. Each little intake of breath, the way he’ll be looking at him one second then somewhere to the left of his shoulder the next, the breathing that’s not relaxed and calm but careful, controlled for a reason. Chandler can’t believe he hadn’t put them together before. Or maybe Kent’s just got good at hiding it—and even then, surely there was a time when he hadn’t been as thorough? Had he seen it and not realised then?

It all wells up in Chandler’s chest, this feeling, but he forces himself to hear Miles’ oft-repeated mantra of _You can’t do anything about it now, boss, leave it be_ and he keeps his mouth shut. His mind keeps dashing forwards, finding things he wishes he’d known at the time, but the words stay in his mind. That, at least, he can do for Kent. He won’t burden him, not if he can help it.

After a moment’s silence Kent catches his eye. ‘You’re not going to ask me to tell you?’

He says it with such incredulity that something in Chandler’s chest aches. Is he really that pushy? Maybe he is. He’s been in charge for too long. He doesn’t really know how not to be anymore, not like this (never like this), and for once he wants to be. If Kent’s asking him. If this is what he wants from him; what he needs. 

‘Not unless you want to,’ Chandler says, picking his words carefully—almost too much so. ‘This is yours. Not mine, as responsible as I feel. You get to decide how to manage it.’

(He understands that, logically. He does. He just can’t really bring himself to believe it. What he can do is force himself to say it.)

‘But…’ Kent says, a tiny smile tempting the corner of his mouth—he guesses, of course he does. ‘You’d like to know?’

Chandler’s still not sure whether to say. 

‘Yes, I’d like to know,’ he admits, on a sigh. ‘If only for the sake of knowing.’

Kent regards him from where he’s leant against the counter; the stance isn’t as casual as it usually is, there’s a certain stiffness about it, but Chandler tries not to notice. He can do what he’s told, can’t he? If it matters. If he trusts the person giving the orders.

Chandler tries a half-laugh and a feeble smile. ‘Even if the only thing you’ll let me do is fetch painkillers.’ 

He gets a gentle laugh in response and relief rushes through him—though he, of all people, knows that it’s not the end of it. 

‘You try to be a noble man, Joseph Chandler,’ Kent says, an honest smile spreading across his face. ‘You almost manage it.’

That should hurt, shouldn’t it? It doesn’t. Not in his voice.

‘Now, I’m going to bed, and the only thing good about it will be the fact you’ll be there.’ He doesn’t wait for a confirmation; instead he reaches for Chandler’s hand and tangles their fingers. He tuts, although there’s a little humour behind it. ‘Just my luck, really. Bloody injury that isn’t helped by sitting down.’ 

Chandler doesn’t laugh, but he gives an apologetic smile and lets himself be tugged into bed. He isn’t particularly tired, not in the way he can be when he’s put in a few extra hours at the station, but Kent had said he’d wanted him there and he’s still trying to process that request when he finds himself tucked up against Kent’s back, trailing light touch across his side because maybe he can do that much—offer distraction—even if nothing else he can do is quite right.

What he doesn’t bank on is his wandering fingers accidentally brushing the tip of the scars they never talk about. Never did. Have they spoken about them tonight? Chandler can’t tell. He can’t tell if he really wants to be asking that question, either, so instead he loops his arm around Kent’s midsection and pulls him as close as he dares. It’s when Kent shifts backward, wince half-hidden in expensive cotton, hooks his ankle across Chandler’s, and twists just enough to lay a kiss on Chandler’s chin that he finally relaxes.

‘It really wasn’t your fault,’ Kent whispers into the small space between them as he turns to face him.

‘You know I don’t agree with you on that count,’ Chandler whispers back.

‘No, it’s true. I did it to myself.’ He shrugs, arranging the pillow to his liking before settling closer to Chandler’s shoulder. ‘You said it yourself. The builders—that was either Johnny or Jimmy or both. And I said they needed a slap.’ He pauses, as if that thought’s troubled him for longer than he’d like, then he shuts his eyes and continues. ‘It didn’t take me long to put the pieces together.’ 

‘That—’ Chandler can’t stop the horrified note from entering his voice. ‘That doesn’t mean it was your fault.’

‘Of course it doesn’t. I’m not sure that even matters anymore.’ Kent’s trying to sound blasé about the whole thing, but the look in his eye tells Chandler something different; he doesn’t push it. He lets Kent swallow and say, ‘But it does answer the question of why.’

‘I’m still sorry.’

‘Don’t remind me.’

Kent says it in such a resigned tone that Chandler knows that’s the last he’s going to hear on the subject. He’s not sure exactly what it means—whether or not Kent doesn’t want to be reminded of the entire ordeal (not that either of them can guarantee that), or he doesn’t want to be reminded that Chandler’s sorry, or he’s tired of having this conversation with everyone, including himself—but he nods as Kent’s hand comes to rest in the curve of the back of his skull, stroking.

‘I’m not very good at this,’ Chandler murmurs.

‘Neither am I, if I’m honest.’ Kent offers him another small smile and he slides his hand southwards until he can weave an arm around Chandler’s waist. ‘I don’t know why you seem to think I know what I’m doing.’ 

It’s probably because one of them really should have some sort of an idea, otherwise they’re blundering about in the world where nothing makes much sense. Except nothing seems to be making sense anyway, not even with this new information that the longer Chandler thinks about it the less likely he is to think they’ll get anywhere with it. But that thought’s chased out of his mind by Kent curling the hand he’d laid against Chandler’s warm back into a fist and turning into the sheets; Chandler raises a hand to touch at his face, the line of jaw still exposed to the air. His thumb brushes against Kent’s temple, following the camber of bone.

‘Don’t fuss.’ Kent looks up and catches Chandler’s wrist, drawing his hand away, repositioning touch on his side. ‘Not for my sake.’

He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t move his head, not even to nod. He doesn’t agree to this. He can’t not think it, he can’t forget it, not even if Kent wants him to—not even if he wants to, because that’s not how his head works. But Kent looks at him through the dark and he can’t say no, he can’t push it, so instead he settles his hand at the small of Kent’s back and urges him a little closer. He shifts into Chandler’s warmth with a small sigh.

As he follows the gentle rhythm of Kent’s breaths, Chandler wonders if Kent knows why he went into the ring with Jimmy Brooks. He knows the official version, they all do, because they needed that DNA, but Brooks had asked after his _boy_ and Chandler would be lying if he said some of those punches hadn’t been for Kent. Even then. And as Chandler sighs and curls his hand into the fabric of Kent’s top, he realises with a lurch that he’d be more than willing to do it again. For his sake.

‘Night, Joe,’ Kent says eventually, softly, dropping a light kiss to the inside of Chandler’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be better in the morning.’

Chandler doubts that.

But God knows he’s good at hoping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: 04 August 2014.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your continued support! x


	10. Chapter 10

Kent’s still stiff and careful the next morning. Chandler finds that sleep has offered no enlightenment on what to do about it. Though perhaps he doesn’t need it and should stop waiting to be struck down by revelations, because Kent turns to him over toast and says that he shouldn’t worry, it’s always like this. It gets better, he’s just got to give it an hour.

‘And,’ he adds, jabbing the crust in Chandler’s direction, ‘you’d better not even think of putting me on desk duty. That’s rule number one.’

Chandler huffs. ‘I think we’re all on desk duty for the moment.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Kent trails off as he gets up; he’s still favouring his leg, but not as much. ‘I’m still getting my own coffee.’

So, when later that morning Kent does yawn and get up from his desk, leaving a file propped open, his mobile acting as an impromptu paper weight, Chandler doesn’t say anything. He certainly doesn’t get up and abandon his own file, even if for a fleeting moment he wants to; instead he keeps an eye on Kent’s silhouette, though its scrutiny lessens as he notices little irregularity to Kent’s gait. He keeps returning, though, even when Kent’s making his way back to his desk, mug of coffee firmly in hand. Just in case. It can’t hurt.

He notices that he crosses paths with Miles, and although they don’t exchange words, Chandler doesn’t notice that the sergeant is making for the threshold of his office before it’s too late to do anything about it.

‘Boss?’

‘Miles,’ Chandler says, clearing his throat and rerouting his wandering gaze. He doesn’t have to, Miles seems to _know_ everything and therefore probably knew about Kent’s pain long before it occurred to Chandler to ask, but he’s more comfortable if he does.

‘I just took a call from Jameson.’ 

Chandler perks up a bit at that. ‘And?’

‘His bank’s isolated the statements. Harding’s name’s on them and everything; it’s definitely him.’

‘When can we have a look at them?’ Chandler asks,

‘I’m negotiating that as we speak, boss. I’m trying for by end of day.’ Miles’ tone suggests he’s just finished an argument that was masquerading as something else; he crooks a brow and shrugs. ‘Though we’ve already got the confirmation we need.’

Chandler nods, mind already working. ‘Excellent.’ 

It’s a beginning, at least. A starting line, something concrete they can work with. It’s a breath of fresh air; they’ve been breathing in theory for so long that it feels like dust, something stuck in their throats. He doesn’t quite smile, although he can feel the beginnings flickering somewhere, and he gets to his feet with an enthusiasm that’s been lacking recently. He doesn’t particularly know where he’s going, or if it’s helpful if he does, but he’s been looking for an excuse to wander into the incident room proper for a while.

Miles follows him out but diverges towards his own desk before long, letting Chandler wander towards the whiteboards on his own. Kent looks up for a split second—Chandler only notices because he’s checking, because he doesn’t want him to think he’s not listened to what he said—but he quirks a small smile that he doesn’t need returning.

Mansell doesn’t maintain such a quiet exterior faced with apparent monotony. 'God, I'm starving.'

Riley plucks a chocolate bar from her bag and chucks it at him. 'Here, have this.' 

Mansell shoots her an odd look, but opens the crackling foil anyway.

'What? I've got kids.' Riley shrugs, as if that explains everything, then turns back to the open box on her desk and mutters, 'Four oversized boys, apparently.'

It takes Chandler a moment to realise she’d included him in that. It takes another for him to decide he’s not going to ponder what it means yet.

‘Sir?’

Chandler turns and finds Kent looking at him again, this time holding a phone away from his ear and covering the speaker with a hand. ‘Yes?’

‘Harding’s in reception.’

There’s a rush of something that sends his heart to somewhere uncomfortable in his throat, but Chandler recovers in record speed and says, ‘Right, thanks.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Miles asks from where he’s stood going through the contents of a desk drawer. ‘Scope him out?’

‘More or less.’ Chandler resists the urge to shrug; he’s not thought about this as much as he usually would. His night’s been filled with something—someone—else. ‘None of us are to say anything to him regarding these deaths—anything at all—unless we get something linking him to the victims. We may have one at the moment, but it’ll be the most tenuous of the lot, so until there’s something else…’ He looks around at the group of them. ‘Not a word.’

‘We’ll keep looking, then,’ Miles says, pinning Harding’s picture to the free space on one of the boards.

Mansell nods towards it, swallowing his mouthful of chocolate. ‘Should be easier now we know what we’re looking for.’

Chandler hums and nods on his way out, although he can’t help but think of the times when he’s spent ages looking for his keys when they were right in front of him. Knowing what the needle looks like doesn’t always make a path through the haystack.

But he’ll deal with that once he’s dealt with this.

He hadn’t been the one to take Harding’s statement at the time; that had been one of the PCs on duty. Riley had interviewed him later on—the next day, with the identity parade, if Chandler recalls correctly (and he usually does). Yet although he hasn’t seen him in person before, he can spot him even through the officers milling about in reception. He sits neatly in one of the provided chairs, ankles crossed and demeanour relaxed, though there’s something sharp and feline in his gaze. It should be benevolent, a gesture rather than an intent, but he’s taking everything in. One of those people, then. You can’t corner them. They’ve mapped out every exit before you’ve even thought about stepping into the room. And Chandler’s determined not to let that happen again.

Chandler’s not sure why but he sort of expected a man in flowing robes. Though perhaps that’s out of vogue for any rector with a website.

‘Mr Harding?’

The man looks to him and, after a beat that’s possibly a moment too long, gets to his feet. ‘Yes?’

Chandler extends his hand. ‘DI Chandler. I’m heading the investigation into the incident you reported to us.’

There’s little hesitation in the way Harding returns the gesture; his handshake is firm, confident, but he’s probably one of those men who has it down pat. Just like Chandler. Their profession requires it, whether or not they’re keen on the sentiment at all.

‘I trust that it’s progressing well?’ Harding asks.

Chandler says, ‘I’m afraid that I cannot provide specifics,’ though he hopes his expression implies that they’ve made decent headway. Which they have, just not on what Harding’s asking after, and Chandler suspects that he wouldn’t appreciate the significance of that morning’s revelations.

‘Understandable,’ is the answer, and he’s far too calm for this conversation to feel natural.

‘We just wanted to confirm some aspects of your statement…’ 

Chandler’s prepared for the affronted reaction that’s not unusual, the complaints that the police can’t do their jobs, that it’s an inconvenience to come in to the station at an officer’s whim, the panic and assumption of disbelief. But Harding simply nods and repeats his story. It follows the same plot as his statement, the details exact and in line with what they know about the situation; there’s none of the strangely specific claims that usually come with something fabricated, no agreement with a script. Chandler’s read the statement enough to know that while Harding’s recalling his story, he’s not repeating his words; this is coming from memory, not memorization. In this, at least, he’s telling the truth. 

‘I understand that you’ve taken it upon yourself to aid the police in their investigations before,’ Chandler says as the retelling comes to an end.

‘Yes. Many a time.’ Harding’s hands are clasped together in front of him, but relaxed. ‘It’s my duty as a citizen, is it not?’

‘I suppose it is.'

‘And in my profession, you get used to watching.’

Almost to underline his statement, Harding glances around the reception from where they’re stood; as far as Chandler can tell there’s not much to be garnered from the scene, besides the fact that the desk sergeant needs to find some better reading material than The Sun, but he still feels himself bristle slightly. He tries to battle it down but he’s readable anyway and he’s quickly learning that Harding’s more than observant.

‘Oh, you mustn’t take that the wrong way,’ he says, opening a palm in what’s supposed to be a placating gesture. ‘It’s only that my workplace is considerably calmer than yours, Inspector. Anything that happens is difficult not to notice. You absorb a lot of information just from being there and having the luxury of possessing eyes and ears.’

‘That must end up taking up a considerable amount of your time, Mr Harding.’

Harding shrugs. ‘I am, of course, responsible for the care of the souls of my congregation. How can I do that without engaging with the community, Inspector?’

‘I don’t think I’m in much of a position to comment,’ Chandler says, careful with his tone. ‘Although I must admit that I imagine any sort of isolation wouldn’t serve you well in your profession.’

Which is a rather odd thought, actually, Chandler realises, except he’s probably getting this all confused with monastic orders and now’s really not the time for his treacherous brain to decide it wants to ponder the history of monasticism. Perhaps it shows, because Harding’s regarding him with a peculiarly knowing expression and it makes Chandler’s skin crawl.

‘I take it you are not a man of faith, Inspector.’

‘No.’ Chandler shakes his head, curving the file in his hands towards himself. ‘Not of any particular strength.’

‘Then how do you carry on? With this job?’

Chandler’s saved from having to find an answer by Miles’ appearance on the landing.

‘Sir?’

That tone’s got something hidden behind it; Chandler’s heard Miles appear just to be convenient, just to fish someone out at the right time. 

‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Harding.’ He smiles and it feels false; that doesn’t often happen. Not like this, anyway. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

‘That is all I can endeavour to be.’ Harding nods in a manner that’s supposed to be sage. ‘Good day, Inspector.’

Chandler has a terrible feeling that this exchange has been more than just a display empty theatre; what it’s filled with is a mystery, though, and his sergeant’s looking more and more impatient at the top of the stairs so he doesn’t linger over it.

‘What is it, Miles?’ he asks, jogging up the last couple of steps.

(He can’t tell whether or not he’s hurrying to meet Miles or trying to put as much distance between himself and Harding as possible.)

‘Kent’s finally surfaced from where he’s kept his nose buried in Cartwright’s datebook,’ Miles says, motioning in the direction of the incident room. ‘She met with Harding.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Well, I suppose there could be another Rev G Harding, but his name’s in there at o’clock with the annotation _research_ _interview._ ’ The sergeant’s tone is dry as he leans his shoulder into the incident room door, holding it open for the both of them. ‘Kent’s disappeared down the stacks to see if he can find an evidence box. If there’s not one there then we’ll probably have to ask the family for her project materials.’

Chandler narrows his mouth; approaching the family any more than they already have could prove problematic. He certainly doesn’t want to have to manoeuvre around any sort of complaint on top of all of this. Although the Cartwrights have been nothing but helpful, perfectly happy (for lack of a better word) to offer what help they could. Perhaps they wouldn’t mind. Or perhaps they’re the sort who couldn’t bear to keep Alexandra’s materials.

‘Why didn’t we catch this before?’ he asks, half rhetorically.

‘Knackered eyes?’ Miles’ tone dares a joke, although it doesn’t particularly last. ‘No, the name’s been added in in pencil. A reschedule, I’d say. Rubbed off something dreadful. You’d only notice if you were looking for it in particular.’

Chandler nods, and although he’s not happy about it, at least that’s a legitimate reason. He’ll have no negligence carrying on under his nose.

‘There’s another thing, boss,’ Miles continues. ‘Riley’s been on the phone with Cartwright’s thesis supervisor. She says there were some questions being raised about the originality of her work. She didn’t say anything at the time because they were only questions and it didn’t seem relevant, but… she’s had a look in a records since we’ve been asking about the case, and as it turns out a large chunk of her proposal was lifted from another study. They only confirmed it after her death, and after the investigation was shelved.’ 

‘And you think it’s related?’ 

‘Nothing else is. And it’s the first new piece of information about her we’ve got.’

‘Academic dishonesty is a feeble provocation to murder, Miles.’ 

‘But she was murdered, and it’s the fact that she met Harding _and_ had that hanging over her head that matters,’ Miles points out, walking from one end of the whiteboards to the other, tapping his knuckle against the photographs taken in Poplar. ‘Our Alfred. He probably met Harding, and he’s dead. Couldn’t he have had something hanging over his head, too?' 

Chandler has to pause. ‘It’s not impossible.’

Miles huffs. ‘That’s high praise, coming from you.’ 

‘What would you suggest?’ Chandler asks, allowing himself a small smile.

‘Let’s see if there’s anyone else Harding knows who’s dead and condemned.’ Miles turns his back to the whiteboards and slips his hands into his pockets, supposedly nonchalant. ‘Anyone with convictions. A past.’

‘There’s probably hundreds.’

‘But how many of them are dead?’

‘He’s a vicar.’ Chandler shrugs. ‘He probably buried quite a few of them himself.’

‘Yeah, well, rule out the ones with natural causes stamped on their death certificates and see what we’re left with.’ Miles shoots him a significant look. ‘There’s only so many unusual deaths that’s normal for one person to be associated with.’

‘Are you volunteering to go through them?’

‘I thought you’d be chomping at the bit to get that job, sir,’ Miles says with a crooked smile. ‘You usually are, after all.’

Chandler huffs and supposes they’ll all have to do it. They can probably take a county each. If they buckle down it shouldn’t take more than twenty-four hours. Forty-eight at the most. And it’s more than they’ve got at the moment; if it throws up something they can look into… well, it might just be worth it. And it wouldn’t be the first time he’s requested what might look like insane amounts of documentation in relation to a case. The duty officers wouldn’t even bat an eye. 

‘Let’s do it,’ he says, because they might as well. 

Miles looks as if he should be rubbing his hands together, but instead he checks his watch. ‘It’s early enough in the day that some poor unpaid intern can corral all the papers for us.’

*

In the end, they send Ed to pick up the reports. He needed to stretch his legs, according to Riley’s prescriptions, and he’s never been one to turn down a trip to an archive.

There’s more than they expect. Somehow they each get a box or two, piled up on each of their desks, but even that’s not quite enough. A corner of Chandler’s office is relegated for the overflow, along with strict instructions not to photograph, photocopy, or to authorise the removal of any of the papers enclosed. He can only stand it because they all make sure that the boxes somewhat align with the lines of his own filing cabinets and he can just about kid themselves they’re supposed to be there.

The work’s just as slow as Chandler had imagined it’d be. But at least it’s methodical, a matter of double-checking and cross-referencing. In fact that’s probably what’s making Mansell grumble, because there’s nothing imaginative about it and they’re all detectives for a reason, but at least Chandler can find some sense of getting things done as he crosses off names and places files in a _not related_ pile. It’s better than them all sitting there, twiddling their thumbs, staring at a set of photographs and waiting for inspiration to strike.

Though the time elapsed probably isn’t that different.

Eventually, Miles excuses himself, clocking off with an apologetic, ‘I’d nick some if I could, boss, but I’m not sure with a toddler in the house I’d get away with it.’ Chandler doesn’t blame him and waves the sergeant off; he holds his head up until the incident room doors slam, although he’s looking at nothing. Middle distance is quite a nice change from Courier New and bright, glossy computer screens, even if Mansell and Riley draw his vision into uncomfortable focus as they wave a goodbye from the corner of the room.

‘You’re staying, sir?’ Kent asks from across the incident room when the door shuts behind them, the slam echoing around his words. 

Chandler starts a little, then sighs. ‘Looks like it.’

Kent turns his head a little further, presumably to see around the doorframe. ‘You wouldn’t mind company, would you?’

‘There’s no overtime in it for you.’

‘I don’t mind.’

Chandler puts his pen down—not that he’s had occasion to use it, but having a pen in his hand for no apparent reason seems to be something he’s picking up from Kent—and tries not to spend too long contemplating the suitability of its alignment before getting to his feet. He walks to the open doorway, the threshold of shadow and light, and hovers. 

‘Everything all right?’ he asks, leaning against the doorframe.

‘We’re not having this conversation again,’ Kent says, looking up again with a growing smile. ‘We’ve got too much to go through for another trip to a crossroads and another of your history lessons.’

Chandler’s slightly taken aback. ‘You remember that?’

‘I remember a lot of things that have to do with us,’ Kent admits, looking down to thumb a pencil mark off his desk.

‘In that much detail, though?’

‘More or less.’ He shrugs and turns back to his papers. If Chandler looks hard enough, squints a little, then he might be able to see the slight flush at the heights of Kent’s face; some sort of nervous energy must propel him on, because Kent looks up again a moment later, a self-conscious lopsided smile on his mouth. ‘You underestimate me, Joseph Chandler.’

There’s something intimate about that, about Kent tasting Chandler’s full name in his mouth; it shouldn’t be, because it’s a jumble of letters and a shadow of a personality that resounds on every form that leaves their office, a name that he trots out himself whenever he wants a witness to talk or an officer to do what he asks. Yet when Kent says it, when he wraps it in something new—another voice, another tone—it suddenly feels like something that should be hushed, that should only pass between them when they’re encased in walls much thicker than this. 

But no lightning strikes the station, no phone call comes through to Chandler’s desk from internal affairs, and Kent just turns back to the papers in front of him, the shape of his hand a shadow beyond the page he’s holding aloft in front of a singular desk lamp.

‘Come on,’ Chandler says, catching Kent’s eye as he looks up and reaching to pull out one of the chairs at his desk. ‘There’s better light in here.’

*

Morning creeps into the station, silent and slippery. There’s no rain like there had been the previous evening, the sound that had echoed in their ears as they crouched over the files, troubleshooting the program when the search had become too much for the computer system. The light finds Chandler still at his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loose, collar as close to askew as it’s ever been. Kent had relocated with the Cambridge list to the armchair in the corner at around four; they should have known, really, but by half past he was asleep. Chandler couldn’t blame him. He certainly couldn’t wake him, which is why he finds himself glancing in the constable’s direction as the PCs clatter around on the landing.

Change of shift. They really have been at it all night.

Chandler puts down the list and runs a hand over his face, rolling his shoulders. Kent mutters something and shifts in his sleep, making the chair shift under his weight. 

Neither of them move. Or, at least, not until Chandler’s just about mustered up the strength to get on with the second half of the names for Berkshire and Miles crashes—for lack of a better word—into the incident room. A suspicious part of Chandler’s brain wonders if the din isn’t supposed to be for their benefit, somehow, but even if that’s what he meant it hasn’t worked. Kent seems oblivious as Chandler jumps to his feet, grabbing at the pages they’d decided needed another look. 

He meets Miles in the middle of the open room, the desks on either side of them covered in an amount of clutter Chandler usually doesn’t stand for. Miles crooks a brow at a pair of paper cups from Kent’s favoured coffee shop propped up next to Riley’s computer.

‘Christ, you look a state,’ he says in lieu of a greeting. ‘For you, anyway.’ 

‘I’ve been working.’

‘I can see that.’

Chandler straightens the papers in his hands as Miles pushes past him, shrugging off his coat, and makes his way to his own desk. The corner of one page must have been scrunched against a keyboard, or perhaps one of their mobiles, because it takes so much concentration to smooth it out that Chandler’s doesn’t notice Miles looking through to his office until the sergeant’s already scoffing.

‘Oh, so you let him sleep on the job, do you?’

For a brief moment Chandler thanks his lucky stars that he hadn’t given in to the urge to drape his coat over Kent like some sort of makeshift blanket. It had been a very odd thought and an even odder feeling, but then again, it had been five in the morning and he’d been awake for near enough twenty-four hours. Another glance at his watch tells him it’s been twenty-six by now.

‘We’ve been here all night, Miles.’

‘Should be getting some kip yourself, then,’ Miles says, rifling through the in-tray Chandler knows is empty of anything of use. ‘There are laws against this sort of thing, you know.’

Chandler huffs. ‘Not ones you haven’t already broken.’

Miles barks a laugh at that. ‘All right, I take your point. You two get much done?’ 

‘I can’t tell yet,’ Chandler admits, handing over the papers and waving his fingers to indicate the stripes of highlighter ink. ‘There are a few names that look interesting but none that have come up as flagged. Though last time Kent checked, the system-wide search hadn’t finished.’

‘Whose computer?’

‘His.’

Miles skirts around him and slots in between Kent’s desk and the whiteboards, tapping the spacebar as he peers at the monitor.

‘Oh, great,’ he mutters, looking up to meet Chandler’s expectant gaze.  ‘The sod’s got his computer locked and he’s dead to the world.’

The expression that accompanies Miles’ words is overdone, as if it’s Chandler’s fault or he expects him to do something about it. Perhaps it is, and perhaps he should, but he happens to know that he’s not the only one with a soft spot for Kent. They all do, in different ways, and Chandler knows Miles would have been hard-pressed to wake him, too. So he ignores Miles’ sly growing smile and makes for the whiteboard, snapping the cap from the closest marker.

‘Boss?’ Miles prompts.

‘I’m not going to stop you waking him,’ Chandler mutters, fixing the tail end of a ‘ _g_ ’ in the reverend’s name.

He would have expected a juvenile shot of some sort, or a sharp comment, but none come from Miles’ direction. Chandler refuses to look and see what’s going on until he hears footsteps and looks up to see Miles en route to his office. The lines of words before him should hold his concern, should keep him there because Miles is his sergeant for a reason. But he’s been awake for over a day—though perhaps not strictly on duty—and he’s going to say that’s why he closes his eyes with a resigned sigh and follows, no matter how telling it feels.

After all, it’s only Miles. He knows everything.

Chandler busies himself with the documents strewn over his desk. They aren’t as messy as they could be, which is probably why Miles shoots him another significant look, but someone needs to put all the counties in order.

Miles nudges Kent’s shoulder; it’s a blunt movement but still somehow gentle. ‘Oi, Kent.’

The man in question scrunches his nose and frowns, turning a little into the crook of the chair’s arm. The file still lodged under his arms, crossed across his chest, wrinkles a little as it’s pressed against the leather. 

Chandler allows himself a quiet suggestion. ‘You’ll have to be a little more emphatic than that.’

‘You’d know, wouldn’t you?’

He attempts a stern look but Miles isn’t paying much attention to him. Instead he hovers at Kent’s elbow until he stirs again and then tries a sharp jostle. It seems that none of them expected quite such an exaggerated startle response because even Miles jumps a little as Kent gasps awake, grasping for the arm of the chair and letting the file fall free.

‘Morning,’ Miles says, voice dry as a few photocopies of the council log books drift and land on top of his shoes.

‘Christ.’

‘No, DS Miles.’

‘Very funny,’ Kent counters, still all breath as he twists to retrieve the lost pages.

‘Working you to the bone, is he?’

‘I offered, skip.’

‘Yeah, well, I knew you were daft, but not that daft.’

‘Come off it,’ Kent says, recovering a little. ‘You knew I was daft before I did.’

Chandler’s pretty sure he’s missing some sort of implication there, something that both of them know but don’t particularly mind if he figures out, either. 

‘Yeah, well, beggars can’t be choosers. If that’s the gift I’ve got…’

Miles trails off in a resigned manner with a put-upon shrug. Chandler’s not entirely sure he follows the implication but Kent’s smiling at the disarray of papers in his hands as he corrals them into something that looks a little more like a file.

‘Go home, get changed, eat something,’ Miles says after a moment, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. ‘We can do without you for an hour or two.’

‘Skip—’

‘I do give some of the orders around here.’ 

Kent looks as if he’s got half a mind to argue. Then again, Chandler knows him, and the other half of his mind has already wandered home and buried itself in bed. He doesn’t blame him; that chair’s not as comfortable as it looks, he knows. And it looks pretty damn uncomfortable. Then a yawn creeps up on him and Kent has to turn away and shake it off, returning to meet Miles’ self-satisfied expression with a sheepish one of his own. 

‘All right, skip,’ he says, placing the file in Miles’ outstretched hand. ‘This time you win.’ 

‘I’ll make a note of it.’

Kent peers around Miles as he straightens his waistcoat, meeting Chandler’s gaze. ‘And what about you, sir?' 

‘His nibs will be doing the exact same thing, once he’s briefed me. So get on with it.’

The words are sharp but the edge is blunt, paternalistic; Kent holds up his hands in mock surrender and points towards the door, indicating the imminence of his exit.

‘Good luck making him do it,’ he says, nodding towards Chandler with a sliver of a smile as he ducks out of the room.

Miles takes no notice, though Chandler reckons there’s a grin threatening somewhere. ‘Unlock your computer on your way out.’

‘The password’s on a sticky note on the underside of the keyboard.’

‘Oh, and I suppose you knew that, didn’t you?’ Miles says, rounding on Chandler, who just shakes his head and wonders whether or not he should do something about that. They’re not supposed to have their passwords floating about—in fact they’re supposed to change them every three months, to something ridiculous involving uppercase letters and numbers out of sequence, but he can see the logic. They might need to get into each others’ computers. The IT department would probably take too long and in the case of incapacity, they wouldn’t have enough time. And Chandler’s really the only one of them who goes looking underneath keyboards, anyway.

‘What’ve you found, then?’ Miles asks, motioning for Chandler to follow as he makes a beeline for Kent’s computer. ‘There must be something if you’ve been here all night. You aren’t a complete idiot.’

Chandler’s reached a point of fatigue where he’s no longer sure if that’s a compliment or not. He’s compos mentis enough to know that it doesn’t matter, though, and he reaches for the more pertinent of the two piles of papers on his desk.

‘There’s not much that’s out of the ordinary, as far as we can tell at the moment,’ he says, coming to a stop before the desk just as Miles peels off the note with an air of victory. ‘We couldn’t speak to anyone directly, not at that time—‘

‘Yes, that is the downside of unsociable hours,’ Miles mutters, typing in each letter with a single keystroke.

Chandler narrows his mouth and presses on. ‘This one was interesting, though. Elizabeth Dogwell. Now, there’s nothing on her record but she posted bail for a charge of reckless driving for a man she identified as her younger brother, one Harry Allen. He’s been in and out of a handful of police stations around the county, all for similar reasons. Drunk and disorderly, disturbing the peace, banned substances.’

‘But he’s in none of the parish records?’

‘You know how I hate to rely on stereotypes, but he doesn’t seem the sort to be overly bothered about showing up for services on a Sunday.’

‘Point taken,’ Miles says as the login screen chimes in the background. ‘I’ll have a look at him. Unless there was anyone else you had in mind?’

‘One or two have had dealings with Vice Squad.’

‘Get a large enough group of people and there’s always a couple.’ Miles shrugs, scanning the search results that pop up on the computer screen. ‘You don’t think much of it, though?’

‘One was a witness. The other was an informant.’ Chandler only half manages to smother down a yawn. ‘I’d stick with Dogwell and Allen for the moment.’

‘And here I was, hoping that someone had poisoned their mother.’

Chandler tries for a tone that’s stern, exasperated. ‘Really, Miles.’

‘You have to admit that would make it more straightforward.’

He wants to say that no, it wouldn’t, actually, because a poisoner isn’t a strangler and they certainly don’t tend to share the same characteristics as someone who slices their victims open as if they’re playing anatomist, but it’s probably a bit early in the morning for that and he’d probably just get his words mixed up.

‘Right then, at ease,’ Miles says, holding his hand out for the documents. ‘You’re done for the morning.’

‘I don’t need that long, Miles—’ Chandler protests, although he hands over the papers and does as he’s told.

‘I’ll let you know if anything revolutionary comes through.’ Miles stops there, as if that’s the end of the conversation, but when Chandler doesn’t move he heaves another put-upon sigh and says, ‘I won’t let anyone rifle through your desk.’

That doesn’t do much to ease Chandler’s mind; no one would dare, anyway. Unless something terrible had happened.

‘You need sleep, boss. An hour, at least. The longer you stand here complaining, the longer it’ll be before I’ll let you set a foot back in here.’

Chandler heaves out another long exhale because he knows that look. Miles always does it when he’s more than prepared to back up his words.

‘Go on, get out,’ Miles says, the words gruff but the tone fond. ‘I don’t want to be responsible for the paperwork if you pop your clogs sat at that desk.’

* 

Chandler’s phone rouses him from his unsettled sleep, although it’s not kind enough to remind him that he’s left it on the wrong bedside table. Which is testament to how close he is to coming a bit unglued. He scrunches his face into the cold half of his pillow and—not without effort—rolls over, reaching for the vibrating device and swiping at the lock screen.

The ‘DI Chandler, Whitechapel CID,’ comes out much more croaky than he expects it to.

For once, Miles doesn’t comment.

‘You can’t say I don’t keep my promises, boss,’ he says, foregoing a greeting. 

Chandler huffs again, shifting onto his back. ‘What is it, Miles?’

‘It’s before noon, and I’m still going to say that you probably need to see this.’

There’s a rustling of paper at such a velocity that makes Chandler feel vaguely uneasy. Though that might just be a side-effect of being woken so unceremoniously. He hadn’t thought he’d fall asleep at all when he’d walked into his flat; all he could see when he shut his eyes was the lists of names, of addresses, of telephone numbers. Though apparently his primordial self-preservation instinct is stronger than he realised, which must be why he’s still alive, really, and he had dozed off. If you could call it that. It’s shocking, really, how quickly he’s got used to having Kent beside him.

He clears his throat. Twice. Neither attempt really works. ‘What is it, then?’

‘Elizabeth Dogwell. I only had to say I was with the Met and was asking after her brother when I got an earful.’

‘Not particularly unusual.’

‘No, well, you won’t like this.’ There’s a muffled half-amused cough. ‘Or you might. Depending on how you look at it.’

Chandler drags his fingers across his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘You’re not selling it very well.’

‘It sells itself, boss. She’s not seen her brother since 1998.’

Chandler groans and heaves himself into a sitting position, narrowing his eyes at the bright mid-morning sun leaking through the curtains.

‘Family squabble?’

Miles pauses, then says, ‘No one’s seen him since 1998.’

The emphasis alone is enough to make Chandler want to flop back down and do most of his thinking staring at the ceiling.

‘Has he been reported missing?’

‘Ms Dogwell says so. Says she reported it herself.’

‘Local force?' 

Miles hums in agreement. ‘According to her, Allen was never made priority. They took a statement, murmured some placations and said he’d probably just taken off. Not a fine example of British policing.’

Chandler makes a vaguely assenting sound and tries to battle down the growing unease that comes with the realisation that this could be tinder for a PR firestorm. They really don’t have the time or resources for that. And Chandler knows he’s not a great face for police reliability, is he?

Miles knows his silences, though, and he presses on through the loaded pause. ‘I’ve sent Riley down to take a new statement. I’ve also put in a request to have dental records checked.’ 

‘Against the Poplar remains?’ Chandler finder-combs his hair, wondering where to begin; the familiar gold-topped tub seems as good a place as any. ‘Bit of a pre-emptive measure.' 

‘It seems early but you haven’t seen their backlog.’ 

Miles’ dark tone drives Chandler to twist the cap of the pot of Tiger Balm with one hand. ‘How long?’

‘I daren’t ask. I’ll see if I can come up with a catchy acronym and get the Chief Super on board with putting a rush on it.’

‘Just remind him how many bodies we’ve got.’

What’s the count now? Five in the London area, at the very least. Not all confirmed—but this isn’t something that’s often confused for something else, is it? Even when they’re spread out over the best part of fifteen years. The higher-ups should be dying to clear something like this up, even if only to let their crime-cutting policies take the credit. They only problem is that Chandler’s not sure they can do it, not even with all the extra manpower. They may never know how far this stretches. They may solve it but they’re never going to be able to put it to rest, are they?

‘Kent and Mansell are tracking down the original missing persons report,’ Miles continues, speaking over the sound of one the of the desk chairs rolling over something that crunches. ‘If we’re lucky one of the investigating officers will still be in the job.’

Chandler huffs. ‘And if we’re unlucky?’

‘Retired and living in the Costa del Sol or retired and dead.’

‘You wouldn’t know anyone?’

(It’s a long shot, but Chandler’s never been above making sure they don’t have any useful connections.)

Miles makes a gruff noise that might just be apologetic. ‘I was on vice in the nineties, boss. Not missing persons.’

‘Right.’ Chandler runs a hand over his face. ‘Okay. I’m on my way back in.’

‘Bet you’re glad I made you have a few hours kip now, eh?’

Chandler feels about as wobbly and unprepared as he had when he’d walked out of the station last, to be honest, but he makes a noncommittal sound that Miles can interpret as an affirmative answer if he wants and says his goodbyes. He slides the phone back into its proper place once the call’s closed and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.

He feels vaguely like he’s collided with a brick wall. At speed. Although he suspects that he’d feel that way regardless of whether or not he’d been asleep. He can’t even tell if it’s that that’s made the ache in his head worse or the sudden lurch of movement as he gets to his feet.

He’ll feel better—more clear-headed—in the station. He knows where he’s up to there.

Chandler’s half-aware that Miles had said that Kent’s already back at work; he tries not to worry that he hadn’t had much rest at all but it works away at him, under his skin. Even as Kent’s reminders not to fuss echo in his brain, he can’t help but think that those hours spent asleep in his chair can’t have helped. He should never have let him do it, really, but it’s not his place to let Kent do or not do anything, is it? He’ll have to ask, won’t he? He’s got no idea when. He can’t think when he’ll get a chance.

And, to top it all off, his shoulder aches.

God knows why his shoulder aches.

*

The phone call’s dreadful.

But someone has to do it and, just like usual, Chandler acknowledges that it’s his job. He has to do it.

Elizabeth Dogwell doesn’t jump down his throat. In fact she’s positively calm, sedate, when he tells her the steps they’ve taken. When he says they’ll keep her updated. When he asks if he should put her in touch with a community support officer. It’s when she asks him, when she starts posing the questions, that it finally gets to him. The ache of hope, the yearning for the dreadful when it’s all that’s left. Not even daring to be given a hint of finality. As if that’s a gift. 

Maybe it’s because he’s heard all that in another voice, decades before. 

The _missing, presumed lost_ label looks ready to peel off. The timeline fits, even with the large windows the anthropologist keeps pressing on them. Riley arrives back in the capital with information that paints a painfully clear picture: Harry Allen, when last seen, was twenty-seven and a brawler, a wrong’un. He lunged at someone in a pub on his twenty-first and he’d had his jaw broken for his trouble. 1998 is comfortably within the margin of error. The dental records and DNA are virtually formalities. As Miles says as he clocks off, ‘I’ll eat my hat if it’s not him.’

No laughter goes with that. It’s just grim acceptance, because they all know it’s him and that this is… well, this is shaping up to be something else. Chandler knows he thinks too much—so much so that tonight it’s almost as if his brain’s gone quiet. He manages to make his way through the rest of the evening relatively easily, even throwing out a _He’s got suspiciously dark hair for a man of his age_ to Kent’s _What did you think of Harding?_

But he’s not doing much thinking about Harding; not at the moment, anyway. The case is almost secondary, except it never really can be, not with him, but something about that phone call makes him think. No one looked, did they? No one minded that Allen had fallen off the map. They all assumed he was where he wanted to be: hidden, out of sight, out of mind to stop the mithering. There are so many assumptions there, so many things thrown out of alignment; they thought they knew each other, didn’t they? Chandler would bet the phrase _it’s what he wants_ got thrown around at the time. How does anyone know what anyone else wants?

He’s asked himself the same question of Kent many a time, in the quiet moments. He’s never quite settled on an answer. And that unnerves him if he thinks about it for very long. 

Chandler tries to convince himself of the things Kent had told him before there’d even been a second body, when he’d said that _honestly, it doesn’t matter, nobody ever loves in the same way anyway_ ; he’d believed it then, with Kent watching his reaction with trepidation in his eyes, and he half-believes it now, with Kent breathing steadily under his arm, solid and there in the dark. It’s just that the half-disbelief is persuasive—you only need reasonable doubt, after all—and it begs the question: how does this end? Everything ends, so this will, but how and when? There are no answers. Chandler’s never been allowed them, apparently, but he searches for them, yearns for them in darkened rooms, and his head never leaves him alone.

He knows from the pattern of Kent’s breathing that he’s not asleep, yet he’s still surprised when Kent shifts and swivels under Chandler’s arm, taking the eiderdown with him until Chandler catches at the edge and pulls it back into place. It’s the sort of thing that, once upon a time, Chandler would have thought he wouldn’t be able to handle. Disrupting bedding isn’t something he usually puts up with. But it’s easier to make exceptions in the dark and Kent’s a walking exception anyway, so as he winds a hand under Chandler’s shirt and settles flush against his chest, Chandler can’t complain. He doesn’t even want to.

‘You’re thinking again,’ Kent says, pressing little kisses into Chandler’s throat.

Chandler hums in agreement and adjusts the angle of his neck so that he can rest his chin on Kent’s mop of curls, stroking his thumb in small circles against Kent’s sides. He’s grateful for the way Kent always phrases those words; he notices, Chandler knows, but he’s a world away from Miles. It’s not a question, it’s a statement, and if Chandler says nothing then that’s fine. It’s just an out if he wants it. Kent must know that for Chandler, sometimes, he gets so far down a train of thought that he can’t quite bear to say it aloud unless asked. But sometimes he doesn’t want to be asked.

He rarely does; or, at least, he rarely did.

‘Em?’

‘Hmm?’ Kent’s voice is warm against Chandler’s neck.

‘Do you want to sleep with me?’

There’s a conspicuous silence and Chandler can feel his heartbeat high in his chest. Kent’s gone very still, his breathing hitched and his fingers stilled against his spine. They don’t look at one another: Chandler keeps his head where he’d left it and Kent presses slightly closer to Chandler’s neck, his nose brushing the carotid pulse.

‘I’d be lying,’ he says, taking a careful breath, ‘if I said no.’

Chandler’s not sure whether he can let go of the breath he’s apparently been holding.

‘But I don’t particularly want to sleep with anyone else, either. And if you don’t want to, then I don’t want to.’

Kent somehow manages to seem sure and uncertain at the same time. He lifts his hand away from Chandler’s back and rests his fingers high on Chandler’s stomach, not pushing him away yet not pulling, either. Chandler doesn’t know what he wants him to do, not really, but he can’t bring himself to let go of Kent’s side, relinquish that gentle in-out of his breathing. Chandler swallows as Kent takes another deep breath and resists the urge to gather him to his chest, to stop the answer he’s asked for before it makes its way out into the world.

'Sometimes I want you so much I can't breathe.' Kent meets Chandler’s eye then, slipping the contact away almost as soon as it arrives. 'But there's more than one way of having.'

Kent strokes the inside of Chandler’s wrist, lingers around the jut of bone; there should be something ominous about that claim, about the other claim that Kent’s hand encircling his arm makes, but there isn’t. He’s not sure he’s been _had_ , not really, but perhaps… perhaps he has. Perhaps this isn’t what people mean but this is having, isn’t it? Kent is warm and in his flat and in his bed and there. Chandler’s still not sure how long he’ll be happy to be there. 

‘I don’t know what you think about the rest of us—’

Kent says it in a way that makes it seem that they’re the ones out of the ordinary.

‘—but I’m not interested in shagging anything that moves. Mansell is an outlier, no matter what he says.’

Chandler’s not sure he wants to hear Mansell’s name mentioned in his bed ever again.

‘I need—I need an emotional connection. Investment. Well, I don’t _need_ it, strictly speaking, but… I prefer it. And the only man I’m remotely interested in investing in at the moment—’ He tilts Chandler a significant look, as if that’s a plain-faced lie, as if it’s a massive understatement and they both know it. ‘—is you.’

Chandler’s sure he doesn’t deserve it. He almost says as much but Kent lays a finger on his mouth and somehow holds back the words.

‘I don’t care if you think it’s right,’ he says with a sort of quiet defiance. ‘It’s what’s happening. It’s what will happen.’

There’s no way they can be sure of that. Chandler knows. He’s got no more faith to place in the serendipity of the world. The universe seems intent on screwing him over. Why should Kent’s affection be any different? Why should he believe that he’s any more likely to have Kent in his life—like this, more than this, with the same soft looks and gentle kisses and momentary touch when they lose themselves in thought—than he is to have his killer in a custody suite by the end of the month?

Kent must be able to tell that the thought bothers him because he shifts, the movement ungainly, and places a skin-warmed hand on the side of Chandler’s neck. He rubs his thumb across his cheek, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

‘I’m happy, Joe. I know our entire MO is trying to understand. But this—me—us.’ Chandler’s not sure where they end and this begins, either. ‘You don’t have to understand why I’m happy; just know that I am, all right?’

He huffs a little. ‘Is that just a roundabout way of saying you don’t know why?’

‘No. I know perfectly well why.’ Kent rubs his thumb over Chandler’s chin, feeling the friction of late-night stubble, and finally settles his gaze on Chandler’s eyes. ‘I love you, you know. Have for ages.’

Chandler focuses on the feel of his fingers against the crook of his jaw instead of his words. ‘Is that why?' 

‘It’s part of why.’

He doesn’t know why but he nods, although that’s not really an answer. Somehow a little sigh escapes Chandler’s chest as well, and through the thin darkness he can see Kent’s mouth quirk into that half-smile he has, the one that always looks like he’s hiding something. That he knows something. (Perhaps he does.)

Kent strokes his hair, fondly. ‘Are you?’

‘What?’ Chandler asks, interrupting the unconscious hum that accompanied his arching into Kent’s touch.

‘Happy.’

Even Chandler’s thoughts hesitate; he’s nowhere near words and he’s already fretting about how they’re bound to come out wrong.

‘You’re allowed to be, you know,’ Kent murmurs through the silence, shifting slightly towards him again. He presses his foot to the top of Chandler’s; he’s bed-warm and the touch is as grounding as his close to sleep-graveled voice. 

‘I know…’ Chandler trails off, tries to make sure he’s got the right sentiment. ‘I know I’m not easy—’

‘I don’t want easy. I want you.’

‘There’s little to want.’ The words drop out, the gaps in his thoughts too wide. ‘There’s no… payoff, with me.’

Kent smiles sadly. ‘I beg to differ.’

‘I don’t understand you, Emerson.’

‘Yes, you do.’ Kent brushes Chandler’s nose with his own, a hand to his chest, feeling the rise and fall there. ‘I’m just like you.’

They’re lying too close for any decent look but Chandler tries to make his eyes focus on Kent’s face, to make their gazes meet. It doesn’t work and he can’t quite decide if he’s trying hard enough. Kent’s hand is warm, his tone warmer, and that’s as far as he wants to go. Asking questions gets you answers and once, maybe, Chandler would have been happy with any. Now he wants certain ones, certain results, and Kent’s soft words don’t always feel concrete enough.

‘I’ll prove it. Tell me this: are you happy? Right now, forget the rest of the time, are you happy?’

It’s easier said than done to eliminate everything else. Chandler’s never been the sort of person who could do it, even when he was at school. All his mates—however many there were at the time—could just decide not to worry about their French practicals, or their maths exams. The world was never as kind to him. It still isn’t. It never has been. It’s funny, in a cruel way; the older you get, the fear creeps in. You think it will be the opposite, but it’s not. Like everything else, it’s backward, it’s reversed, it’s not at all what he’d expected.

But, that being said, there’s something incredibly grounding about the way that Kent’s just waiting, his fingers drifting across the skin on the back of Chandler’s neck, watching through the not-quite darkness. His gaze doesn’t feel intrusive. It should, but it doesn’t. His touch should bring up goose bumps, but it doesn’t. He should be embarrassed, but he’s not. He should be scared, but he’s not. 

He doesn’t know what he is. Not really. But he wants to be here. He’s _happy_ here. With him.

Chandler takes a careful breath that’s supposed to be calming, and says, ‘Yes.’

Kent makes a small crooning sound, almost a reward. Or a pleased acknowledgement of an otherwise obvious statement, Chandler can’t tell which.

‘I won’t make you tell me why,’ he says, his voice an extension of the warm sound, the reassuring sense of being there. ‘Because I already know. It’s the same for me, you know.’

Chandler makes a little dismissive sound, muffled against the bedding, and says, ‘Most people get fed up eventually.’

‘Trust me, if I was going to get fed up with you, it would have happened ages ago.’ Kent’s smiling at him properly now, his eyes bright through the dim light, although when he notices Chandler’s uncertainty his tone shifts to something more hushed and reassuring. ‘You have been nothing but honest with me. Why would I back out now?’

Chandler doesn’t know. Then again, he doesn’t have to, does he? It still might happen.

‘And…’ Kent trails off, shifting so he can run a hand up and down Chandler’s arm. ‘Well, feel free to tell me off for saying this, but your sample size isn’t exactly considerable, is it?’

He’s right. Chandler’s never exactly hidden it, his relative inexperience, but he hasn’t gone out of his way to mention it, either. But he supposes its obvious. Miles could tell, after all, and Kent’s always been good. He’s always noticed. He takes after Miles like that. But even so the revelation makes the back of Chandler’s neck burn with repressed embarrassment, and he’s tempted to shift closer and hide his face in the warmth offered by Kent’s neck. But he doesn’t, he forces himself not to, and he swallows to speak.

‘No,’ he admits, and he’s grateful for the absence of change in Kent’s expression. ‘There have been a handful of people in my life who I…’

Chandler trails off. He’s not entirely sure how to explain it; he never has been. _None of them like you, Emerson_ , he wants to say but the words won’t form in his mouth.

Kent smiles to fill the silence, his expression warm and affectionate. ‘You really know how to flatter a bloke.’

Oh, God. This is it. This is where he’s gone wrong, isn’t it?

‘I—’ 

‘No,’ Kent says with a slow smile. ‘I mean it.’ He nudges a little closer. ‘You do.’ 

Chandler smiles into the sheet; Kent kisses his flushed cheek.

*

It isn’t until the next morning, when Chandler’s replaying the conversation in his head as he knots his tie, that he really realises that Kent said he loves him. The feeling shocks him into stillness. His fingers feel clumsy and out of control as he smooths on the rest of his suit, the waistcoat and jacket. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, actually, and he resists pacing by actually walking in a particular direction.

He finds Kent in the kitchen, no longer rumpled and soft as he had been half an hour before, but a set of crisp lines and neat buttons that even Chandler would be proud of. He is. He is proud of Kent and that feels like a revelation. It shouldn’t, because strictly speaking the feeling’s not unfamiliar, but in that moment of reflection Kent turns around, meets Chandler’s gaze, and as usual Chandler doesn’t know where to start. 

Kent does, though. ‘Oh, hello.’

‘You said you love me.’

(He just blurts it out, because it’s at the front of his mind, because the words are languishing on his tongue and if he doesn’t say them they might not be true.)

‘Mmhm,’ Kent says, through a mouthful of tea and toast, as if that’s the most normal thing in the word.

Chandler blinks, long and slow. He tries to put his hands in his pockets but misses; Kent’s mouth twitches into a smile as he swallows.

‘You don’t have to believe me.’ 

‘No, I…’ Words don’t seem to be doing Chandler much good, either, but he gathers them as best he can. ‘I do.’

And he does. It’s a strange feeling but he picks out truths for a living and that’s one of them. Normally certainty takes a little longer to cement in his mind, and for a moment Chandler wonders how long he’s known, somewhere, instinctually, but perhaps he’s learnt something because that doesn’t seem to matter much anymore. He knows now.

Kent turns back to where he’d been standing, holding his toast over the breadboard, and Chandler gives in to the irrational urge to keep him close, prove to himself that he’s there and they’re both there and this isn’t some feverish hallucination brought on by stress or exhaustion or whatever it is that seems to get policeman at the end of their careers. He finds his proof with his hands at Kent’s waist, boldly possessive for once because he finally feels it, feels the rush of feeling that’s the kind of thing that makes him want to stand there and stay put forever. The way Kent leans back against his shoulder makes him seriously contemplate doing just that.

‘How long?’

‘I hesitate to say forever, but…’ Kent trails off, gesturing vaguely with a hand as Chandler lays a kiss behind his ear. ‘It feels that way.’

Now that’s an exaggeration, Chandler knows, but he also knows that everything can be real somewhere, in some crevices of their minds. He could give lectures on the subject, how the brain can deceive itself. But he just sighs and rests his head next to Kent’s, because for some reason that’s the only thing he can think to do. Kent’s obviously better prepared for this sort of thing, because he just takes another bite of his toast and tests Chandler’s grip by leaning to pick up his mug again.

‘Why?’ Chandler asks after a moment.

(His thoughts are slipping out far too easily these days, when it’s just them.)

‘Give me a chance,’ is the answer, accompanied by a laugh. ‘I’ve got to be in the station in twenty minutes.’ 

Kent makes a show of checking his watch but he makes no attempt to dislodge Chandler from where he’s parked himself against his back. Anyway, Chandler knows he’s not going anywhere quite yet. He’s not even had half of that cup of tea.

'I haven't done anything,’ he muses, murmuring against Kent’s hair.

'You daft bastard,' Kent says, and it comes out with a short laugh like a reflex, like he's thought it a thousand times. 'You don't have to.'

Chandler frowns at the cooker as Kent leans back the best he can to press a brief kiss to the side of his jaw. ‘But surely—’

‘You don’t have to.’

That’s the truth, too, somehow. In Kent’s mouth, with his certainty; there’s something about _his_ certainty that overrides Chandler’s irreparable wariness. That’s always been there, hasn’t it? In one way or another. He just sees it now, sees it for what it is, what it has been. Chandler presses another kiss to the side of Kent’s head, just because.

‘That doesn’t make much sense, you know,’ he says as he pulls away. 

‘No, this makes sense.’ Kent catches Chandler’s arm as he finally lets him go. ‘It just doesn’t make sense to you yet.’

Very little makes sense to Chandler at the moment, especially not the way Kent’s fingers tighten in a comforting grip around his wrist. But of all people, Chandler trusts Kent, he trusts him and he’s let him teach him enough already that nodding, accepting that statement as truth is easier than Chandler would have expected.

‘But, if you have to have a reason,’ Kent says, after a moment’s silent pause, that smile creeping up on them both again. ‘It’s mostly because you twitch in your sleep. You know, like dogs dreaming they’re running?’

‘No, I don’t.’

Chandler says it so quickly even he’s not sure whether or not it’s the truth. Yet he wouldn’t know, would he? He should be worried about the fact there are things that Kent knows about him that he’s not sure of himself.

‘Yes, you do. Sometimes.’ Kent grins and and keeps his gaze to himself, softly adjusting Chandler’s tie. ‘It’s terribly endearing.’

A surprised huff escapes Chandler’s chest, because that’s probably the last way he’d describe himself, and Kent tries to shoot him some sort of reprimanding look but he just ends up shaking his head, smiling at nothing in particular. 

‘I didn’t say it because I want to hear it from you,’ he murmurs, smoothing a palm down a lapel. ‘I said it because you should know. I want you to know.’

And if anyone would have to be told, to have it spelled out to them, Chandler knows he’s that man. He’d probably even think he’d try and refute it, to poke holes, to find out who or what put him up to it. Yet as Kent looks up at him, curls his fingers away from Chandler’s chest and back towards himself, he can’t bring himself to argue. He knows what Kent looks like when he’s lying, now (how can he forget that?). So when no words offer themselves up for use, he nods.

(It’s insufficient, he knows, but he can’t think of what else to do. Not yet. And one corner of Kent’s mouth quirks into another smile regardless.) 

‘Can I go to work now?’ Kent asks, nodding down at where Chandler’s caught his hand again, running his thumb against Kent’s knuckles in a movement that’s apparently become reflexive. 

Chandler suddenly flushes with hot embarrassment, as if that’s the most telling thing he’s done this morning. He lets go too quickly and the movement’s clumsy, clumsy enough for Kent to tangle their fingers again and apply a reassuring pressure that seems to have become a sort of touchstone between them. 

‘You’ll be fine,’ he says, plain as day. ‘You know that, right?’

It shocks Chandler to realise that no one’s ever said that to him before. Not with such honest conviction. 

He’s still pondering that fact when Kent leans up towards with with a soft there-and-gone brush of lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: 07 August 2014.
> 
> Finally in the double digits of chapters posted! And, on a week from today, the final chapter of this will be up--it's gone so quickly! Thank you all again for the lovely words, all the kudos and support. Hope these last few updates suit you! ;)


	11. Chapter 11

If there’s one thing that Kent didn’t use to convince Chandler to give them a try, it’s that it’s remarkably easy to switch between their easy familiarity in Chandler’s flat and their professional relationship in the office. Perhaps that’s because, despite Chandler’s best efforts that first year, they’ve never been a particularly formal team; perhaps it’s because, like most things, you get used to doing it. So even as the team congregates around the whiteboards, perching anywhere there’s free space, as Chandler stands before them, Kent’s gaze from where he sits next to Mansell on the edge of a desk feels only slightly warmer than it should.

It’s Miles smirking into his cup of tea that’s more telling, and Chandler’s got used to ignoring that, too.

‘We have fairly concrete reasons to believe that Harding either knew or was in contact with both Alexandra Cartwright and Harry Allen,’ Chandler begins, indicating both their photographs. ‘We’ve also confirmed that Harding was in residence nearby to where both of them lived, worked, and were found dead.’

‘David Brown, Heather Mitchell, and Jacob Griffin are more difficult to establish,’ Miles adds, from his seat, turning briefly to shoot a look at an inexplicably chuckling Mansell. The constable does his best to stop, although Kent continues to look somewhat aggrieved.

‘Brown does not appear on any church electoral rolls for St Oswald’s,’ Chandler continues, letting them get on with it. At least Riley, sitting on Mansell’s other side, seems to be paying attention. ‘And neither do Mitchell or Griffin in either of the churches where Harding was working at the time of their deaths.’

‘But they wouldn’t necessarily have been registered, even if they had been attending services,’ Riley musts, spinning her pen between her fingers.

‘No,’ Chandler admits, and he’s almost distracted by the way Mansell’s leant to say something in Kent’s ear and Kent’s visibly stiffened, his face carefully blank. ‘But it’s more likely that they met Harding more than once or twice. Even if he’d singled them out as victims on the first visit, it’d take him longer than that to find out where they lived. And addresses would be given with registration.’

‘Seeing as Allen was the only one who wasn’t killed in their home, it’s reasonable enough to think that they Harding knew them all well enough to be invited in without question. And he must have known when they’d be in alone, for the ones who had flatmates,’ Miles says. ‘Perhaps we should look into other venues where they could have been introduced. Charity work, open days, volunteering, outreach—‘

‘For the last time,’ Kent suddenly snaps from the corner of the room, rounding on Mansell. ‘ _I am not loved up_.’

The other constable simply grins. ‘The lad doth protest too much.’

Briefly, Kent looks as if he’s about to clock Mansell one. Chandler wouldn’t blame him (and, if he’s honest, he’s quite surprised that Mansell’s lasted this long without some sort of physical repercussion beyond a thwack) but there are more pressing matters at hand.

‘Mansell!’ he snaps, turning bodily away from the whiteboards to fix him with a stern expression. ‘While I appreciate your concern for your colleague’s well-being, can we keep to the matter at hand, please?’

Chandler’s starting to enjoy the way he can make Mansell shut up just by saying something vaguely reminiscent of a joke. It’s quite useful. This time Mansell looks between him and the rest of the team, half-astonished, and when he gets no further explanation he settles for a diffident, ‘Sir.’

Chandler nods once. He can think of a few more choice words but he keeps them to himself.

‘Brown had a large number of clients: authors he represented, publishers he often dealt with. See if any of them knew Harding—one degree of separation isn’t too far away to be useful.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘Do the same for Mitchell. She had clients through the accountancy firm, check them out. Griffin worked much more privately—commuted to London and maintained a small flat in Spitalfields.’

‘We’ve been on to the landlord. Or, well, he’s dead now, but his daughter. She hasn’t got back to us with any paperwork yet,’ Kent says, ignoring the significant look from Mansell he gets for his trouble.

‘Get back on to her,’ Chandler says. ‘We need that information. Remind her that this is a murder investigation, not an inquiry into their business practices.’

‘Yes, sir.’

If Chandler’s being honest, then he’d admit to almost cringing at that, because although that’s the way they’re all supposed to address him and the way they always have, Chandler would have put money on Mansell catching on to it. And he would have won his money back. It pains Chandler that he can’t really do anything about Mansell’s crooked smile and the way he’s muttering to Kent’s shoulder although the other constable’s keeping his gaze resolutely forwards.

‘Stop winding him up, Fin,’ Riley says, tweaking Mansell’s elbow mid-whisper. Kent shoots her a grateful look but he should never have been so confident. ‘Though, I must admit…’

Kent tuts and mutters something that’s probably more along the lines of _for fuck’s sake_ than _thanks_ , but after a moment’s fierce scribbling on the corner of the page he’s balancing on his knee he turns his attention back to Chandler. It’s probably a bad idea but Chandler softens his expression ever so slightly, just for a second, before returning to the information before them. 

‘Harding is something of an enigma himself,’ Chandler continues, tapping the man’s headshot with a knuckle. ‘We can’t find any evidence of surviving parents or siblings. He’s got no immediate family, no partner, no children. The closest we’ve got is co-workers.’ 

Miles grunts and quickly turns to indicate something to Riley; evidently she knows what he means because she leans to grasp a pile of papers and hands them over into Miles’ outstretched hand.

‘We’ve managed to find his ex-tutor,’ he says, scanning the text. ‘A Professor Stuart Reynell. Works at a university in Bloomsbury at the moment.’ 

‘We’ll speak to him, then.’

‘Not today, you won’t. It’s his day off,’ Miles passes a page along indicating the contact detail. ‘It’ll have to be tomorrow.’ 

Chandler wants to give in to the vague impulse to say bugger it, let’s call on him at home, but he knows as much as Miles does that getting people on their good side can make all the difference. Calling to make an appointment could get them useful information; arriving on his front doorstep and giving the doorbell a run for its money could get them a harassment suit. 

‘All right,’ he says, on a sigh. ‘Tomorrow it is.’

Mansell decides that’s the moment to clean up his act. ‘I haven’t been able to track down any of the people Harding worked under as assistant curate, or whatever the equivalencies are,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘They’ve fallen off the map, it seems. But it looks like the church in a village near St Albans might keep extensive records. They seem quite proud of it, actually; they’re advertising for a resident archivist.’

Someone mutters, ‘Don’t tell Buchan,’ but Chandler can’t be bothered to figure out which of them it was.

‘You and Kent can sort that out tomorrow, then,’ Miles says before Chandler can get a word in edgeways, his tone short. ‘Maybe you can both learn some manners on the way.’

Kent overdoes a groan but nods nonetheless. Riley does actually look sympathetic this time.

‘Kent,’ Chandler says, and if Miles asks him later, then no, he’s not trying to distract him (except yes, he is). ‘You did all the research into Harding’s background. Any thoughts?’

‘Well, sir, there’s not much, really. Most of what’s available is officially released, which would suggest that there’s been some tampering with the truth. Usually that means nothing—I mean, most organizations do it, don’t they?—but there might be some omissions. First-hand testimony would be more useful but, as far as I can tell…’ Kent trails off, tapping the end of his pen against the pad of paper. ‘He comes across as perfectly professional.’

Miles scoffs. ‘He’s probably got skeletons marching out of his closets.’

‘Well, you called it, skip,’ Mansell says with another laugh.

Chandler thinks that’s a blanket statement and it’s too close to one too many truths, so he ends the brief there and retreats to his office.

* 

‘Sir?’

Riley stands at the propped-open office door as Chandler looks up. 

‘Yes?’

‘I’m just off to see Brown’s supervisor again.’ She motions with the coat in her hands. ‘He’ll walk me through their systems, and he says he hopes to have a contact list for Brown’s clients available soon.’

‘Oh,’ Chandler says, ‘Good. That’s quicker than I’d expected, to be honest.’

Riley smiles, stepping further into the room. ‘To be honest, this fella sounds scared stiff. He’d probably bend over backwards to help us, though I won’t push it by trying to ring him at quarter past midnight if I’ve had a sudden idea.’

Chandler allows himself a tiny chuckle. ‘Well, good luck. Report back before end of shift.’

‘I don’t think it’ll take that long, boss,’ she says, voice sure as she turns again and reaches for the door; it’s halfway through actually leaving that she pauses, door still in hand. ‘Oh, and sir?’

Chandler hums, a question, polite and wordless. 

‘I’m happy for you two.’

His thoughts scratch to an uncomfortable halt. He looks at the page beneath his stilled pen for a moment then raises an unsure glance to find Riley grinning at him.

‘It was about time,’ she says, as if that’s an explanation. ‘The poor boy’s been putting up with the teasing for years without you even being involved at all.’

Chandler’s aware that she’s slipped into a tone that’s unlikely to be noticed over the general noise of the incident room—typing, shuffling papers, swearing, an occasional exclamation of inspiration—but he can’t quite stop himself from asking. 

‘How?’

Riley slips him a small smile. ‘Skip might call it female intuition. I call it common sense.’

And, in a mad moment, Chandler actually smiles back, because although Miles certainly wouldn’t call his feelings on this situation _female intuition_ , they’re starting to feel like the archetype of common sense. 

‘See?’ Riley says. ‘He’s good for you. We’re all glad for that.’

He should take at least a little offence at that, he knows. He’s never been a tyrant. He’s never tried to be, and of all people Riley should know that. She only met him several years after the original relaxation, though no doubt she’s heard the stories. Miles has enough of them and he never tires of retelling them over a pint or three. Then again, he’s taken to telling Chandler he’s going soft, so perhaps all their priorities are shifting. Chandler knew they’d find out one day, after all, but knowing they’ll know and knowing that they do are slightly different.

‘What about Mansell?’ he asks, tone quiet but not quite hushed.

‘I reckon he has his suspicions. He’s not as thick as he looks, and he’s certainly noticed something, even if he’s not quite sure what it is he’s looking at right now.’ She shrugs, as if that’s not a mildly frightening thought. ‘But, if you want either of them to come back in one piece tomorrow, best not mention it quite yet.’

Chandler’s face must contort a bit at a thought, because he says, ‘Good point,’ just as Riley breaks into another grin.

‘Though I think the skipper’s already got favourable odds on Kent throwing the first punch,’ she says, half-teasing. ‘Shall I put your name down, sir?’

He really shouldn’t. But, then again, he shouldn’t be doing quite a few of the things he’s done in the past few months, and it’s tradition.

‘Go on, then.’

* 

Chandler naturally wakes before his alarm goes. He always does, he always has, and it generally serves him well. This particular morning, however, has only served to confound him so far and the fact that he hasn’t even got out of bed yet doesn’t bode particularly well for the rest of the day. It’s just that it’s a little difficult getting up with his bed partner’s somehow managing to pin him down without trying.

He wouldn’t have thought Kent would be so heavy, not before they started… whatever this is. They still haven’t got around to naming it, not really, but apparently it involves sleeping virtually on top of one another. They hadn’t started off this way—who does?—but although Chandler’s experience with this sort of thing is thin on the ground, he feels no urge to complain. He might if his arm goes numb. But at the moment he’s quite content lying in the light-tinged darkness feeling each of Kent’s breaths against his chest, against his upper arm.

Somehow, in the night, Kent’s managed to wedge himself against Chandler’s side and bury his head into the crook of his neck and shoulder. He’s slipped a knee between Chandler’s, and the slender bone of his hip’s digging in a bit. The arm he’s thrown across Chandler’s chest isn’t wrapped around his ribs but instead rests, limp, rising and falling with each breath. His fingers are lax, but there’s a slight curl to them that suggests at one point he’d wrapped them in the covers.

The most Chandler can conclude is that Kent is very asleep, very endearing, and very heavy.

It’s raining, too, but that doesn’t seem nearly as important. The more he tries to listen to the faint thump on the windows, to try and ascertain how hard the downpour is, the more distracted he gets by the small huffs of Kent’s breaths, the rhythmic warmth against his neck. The longer he lies there the more he doesn’t care about the weather, because of the mad idea that he’d just like to stay there, in the warm, with Kent pinning down one arm and immobilizing one shoulder. He won’t, because he sets an alarm for a reason and they’re both police officers grappling with a case the higher-ups would like cleared up sooner rather than later. But he’s allowed his own thoughts, isn’t he?

Chandler just blames it on the early hour.

He tests how much movement he’s got left in his shoulder. As confident as he is that the type of light filtering through the edge of the curtains says it’s too early to start worrying about being late, Chandler would like to check the exact time. It isn’t an urge that renders him callous, though, and he’s wary, careful. The shift jostles them both for a tense moment and Chandler immediately—irrationally—wants to chastise himself.

Kent stirs slightly, although plainly still asleep, and buries that little bit closer to Chandler’s side. The movement allows Chandler to somehow extricate his arm and check that the compromised blood flow’s not rendered it unusable; even if it had been, he’d have still found it difficult to resist using the newly regained freedom to run the back of his knuckles gently between Kent’s shoulder blades, across the ridge of his spine. The covers have been tugged loose—again, another piece of evidence that’s Kent’s, because Chandler’s always been able to maintain hospital corners—and they’ve pooled behind Kent’s back. He’s given up on his own pillow as well, and switched to a combination of Chandler’s own and Chandler’s shoulder.

The weight of Kent’s head digs in to the bone, and somewhere vague in Chandler’s mind he wonders if that pressure’s supposed to be uncomfortable. He’s always thought that it would be, that it should be, but it’s not. He’s almost glad for it because that weight—along with the rest, because let’s face it, there’s quite a lot—proves Kent’s there and that he’s all right. Which is a strangely visceral reaction to waking up to find him snuffling into his shoulder. Chandler had always thought he’d mind, but the dread’s absent. 

Then again, he figures a bit of natural oddness during sleep is the least he can put up with, and he traces his hand through the back of Kent’s hair. The silence is a blanket, welcoming, and in the distance Chandler can hear the faint clatter of a train leaving a station.

The alarm goes, a shrill electronic beep that usually sends anyone in earshot into an irrational mood, and even Chandler’s a little startled. Kent tenses against him, the reaction unconscious but threatening not to be, and the need to switch off the sound suddenly feels much more urgent. Which is a testament to something, because not even a man like Chandler actually enjoys alarms and he usually wants to get rid of them as quickly as humanly possible.

He doesn’t get much of a chance, though. Kent picks up his hand and, although the coordination is drowsy and inaccurate, reaches for the phone; he doesn’t know the code that would let him into the program itself but apparently he knows his way around alarms because he manages to switch it off with a minimal amount of inarticulate pawing. The hand drops back to the bed once the sound stops, and with a deep sigh Kent tucks it under Chandler’s shoulder.

Chandler goes back to absentmindedly stroking his back, staring at the ceiling. He might be smiling, but he has absolutely no reason why.

‘You’ve only switched it to snooze.’ 

He says it not expecting that Kent will hear, or even be awake, but there’s another small huff and he mutters, ‘T’ll do.’

Chandler smirks a smile and Kent presses his head closer still, so that Chandler’s hyperaware of his own pulse and the rush of his own blood. Kent’s breathing evens out so much that Chandler would have sworn he’s gone back to sleep, or at least drifted off into a bit of a doze, but a shiver runs through him with the next stroke of Chandler’s fingers.

He doesn’t pick up his head to speak and Chandler feels the smile as much as he felt the tremor. ‘Bit ticklish.’

‘Sorry.’ 

‘Don’t mind.’ Kent’s voice is muffled and the words slow, dragging across Chandler’s skin. ‘Can be nice.’ 

‘So can this, but you’re going to have to let me up eventually.’ Chandler twists his head to speak in an unnecessarily hushed tone into Kent’s ear. ‘There _is_ a shift today.’

Kent groans and grumbles something unintelligible, tightening his grip around Chandler’s midsection.

‘Sorry, didn’t quite catch that.’

‘We need to start getting to bed earlier.’

‘Give it another go tonight, then?’ The question is hushed, quiet, as if he’d like to be able to deny he said anything. ‘If you want.’

‘Wishful thinking, coming from you,’ Kent mumbles. ‘We’re working a case. You’re not going to sleep.’

Chandler strains his eyes to look down at the top of Kent’s head; he’s clearly not properly awake, because his logic’s gone. They’re in bed. He’s been asleep. The fact that Kent’s managed to pin him down so well is testament to that.

‘You’ll have to remind me.’

‘Shall I put that on my CV?’ Kent smiles against him, shifting slightly. ‘Willing to remind bloody-minded superiors to sleep?’

He’s forgetting himself; they usually steer well clear of such insinuation. But they both knew the situation going in, and maybe the fact that Chandler’s only marginally more awake then Kent is helps, because he just chuckles. He doesn’t even mind being called bloody-minded. Probably because he is and it’s in these half-awake moments when he realises it most.

‘I think that’s rather specific to your current position,’ he murmurs, yawning. 

Kent chuckles and tucks his nose into the curve of Chandler’s neck and shoulder. ‘Five more minutes?’

The question drags across his skin, the gentle tickle of Kent’s breath and the press of his weight a convenient stand-in for a full sentence. Normally Chandler would murmur something like, _if you must_ and press a brief kiss to the side of Kent’s head before slipping out of his grip, but this morning he can’t blame him for wanting to delay the day for a little longer. Chandler may have to track down Harding’s ex-tutor with Miles, but Kent’s got a day trip with Mansell to look forward to and anyone with an ounce of sense knows you need a good night’s rest to cope with one of those.

‘Okay,’ Chandler says, knowing that Kent doesn’t necessarily mean to sleep. ‘Yes, there’s time.’

*

The rain’s stopped by the time Chandler and Miles walk through Fitzrovia’s streets trying to find Harding’s ex-tutor. It appears that he’s gone walkabout leaving nothing except a half-hearted apologetic message to his students tagged on the door to his office. It was a lucky coincidence that they arrived at the same time as a rather frustrated PhD student who pointed them in a likely direction; she’d had enough and was going for a drink. Chandler almost asks if it was a little early, then recalls his own low points and decides otherwise.

They had hoped to be able to speak to Reynell in private—or, at least, somewhere less private than a courtyard—but when they spot him through a group of students it’s almost an hour later than they’d expected so they’ll take what they can get.

‘Stuart Reynell?’ Miles says, loud enough to be overheard.

‘Yes?’ The man turns around, adjusting his grip on an armful of folders as his gaze settles on them both. ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’

‘Met police.’ He gestures towards himself. ‘DS Miles. This is DI Chandler.’

‘I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but I can’t imagine you’re looking for me under reassuring circumstances.’ 

‘Could you explain what you mean by that, Mr Reynell?’ Chandler asks, tone suddenly taut.

‘Oh, only that you’re the police,’ Reynell says with a small, nervous laugh. ‘Surely you rarely have the chance to deliver good news?’

Chandler’s stomach twists uncomfortably and he’s inordinately glad that they’re outside. The air may be London’s, typically grey and flecked with dust, but it’s cool and mobile and a deep breath washes away most of the gut reaction. What remains Chandler swallows down, bitter like bile, and he tries to arrange his face as they’d taught them at Hendon—a trained mixture of disinterest and concern.

Miles clears his throat. ‘We are conducting inquiries in connection to one Gregory Harding.’

‘I’m afraid that in my line of work you come across more names than you care to remember—though, I suppose, that is the curse of your own as well.’ Reynell glances around the courtyard, wrinkling his nose as another wave of students make their way through towards the road. ‘Shall we walk? It’ll be no good trying to have a conversation in the gates. Undergraduates everywhere, the pesky things…’ 

Miles shoots Chandler a look as they fall into step behind the professor. Chandler doesn’t blame him, and he’s starting to understand the potent mixture of exasperation and frustration that had been running off that student in waves. It may have been years since he’d been in school, and he’d never gone quite this far into an academic world, but Reynell does remind him of one or two infuriating police officers he’s worked under. Thinks a lot of himself, clearly—it’s probably what Miles expected _him_ to be like, on that first meeting. Chandler almost smiles at that when they come to a stop beneath the bare branches of a struggling tree.

‘Now,’ Reynell says, depositing most of the bulkier files on a nearby fading bench. ‘Who was it you were asking after again?’

‘Gregory Harding.’

Reynell looks to the middle distance for a moment, then shakes his head. ‘Sorry, it doesn’t immediately bring a face to mind.’

Miles fishes the photograph from his coat pocket. ‘It would have been twenty-odd years ago. Harding’s listed as a contributor on a paper you published.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t have too much contact with research assistants,’ Reynell says, although he takes a pair of reading glasses out of a breast pocket and takes the photo out of Miles’ hand. ‘Though, he does look vaguely familiar. I appreciate that you must expect a little more than that, but…’

Chandler nods. ‘Would context help?’

‘It generally does.’

‘Where were you working in the eighties, Mr Reynell?’ he prompts.

‘Oxford. Somerville.’ He answers promptly, then takes a moment to frown at a small pile of fallen leaves at their feet. ‘I worked on quite a lot of interdisciplinary projects then, so perhaps…’

‘The piece we’re interested in was published in the October.’

‘1980, you said?’

Chandler and Miles both nod.

‘Bit of a funny time for me. I’d been on sabbatical for the two years previous, doing a bit of research on my own. I had a book coming out, you see, and a contract for a follow-up. You’ll forgive me for not recalling students’ names too quickly. I hadn’t had any for a while at that point.’

‘Harding wouldn’t have been a student,’ Chandler says, then corrects himself with, ‘Well, not an undergraduate.’

‘That narrows the field a bit. Which study are you most interested in?’

Chandler recites the title from memory; he can’t say he understands it on a meaningful level, but from the way Reynell nods he reckons it means a lot more to him than any of them.

‘That’s certainly one of mine. It was quite a large team, in the end, as far as I can recall. A couple of historians, a theologian or two, an expert in Latin literature and medieval philosophy. For a brief period there may have even been a mathematician.’

(Chandler can’t help but think that Ed would be salivating at the very _idea._ )

‘He was one of the theologians,’ Reynell says, glancing back down at Harding’s face between his fingers.

‘Is that usual, then?’ Miles asks, taking back the photograph as it’s offered. ‘Publishing credit for a research assistants?’

‘It isn’t out of the ordinary. Certainly not for a postdoctoral assistant.’ The professor shrugs. ‘Contrary to popular belief, sergeant, we academics are considerably less hierarchical than your colleagues. If one of them presented useful evidence, or an intriguing argument, and we worked it into the piece, then what would be more fitting than their name on the paper?’ 

‘I imagine it can get quite cutthroat,’ Chandler says, musing. 

Reynell tilts him a sharp look, a crooked smirk. ‘I never said it didn’t.’

‘What did you make of him, then?’

‘He didn’t leave any particular impression, Inspector.’

Chandler can’t help but frown a little. He can’t understand why no one they speak to seems to have much to say about Harding, even people who worked with him. He knows from his own experience that people generally have a lot to say about their colleagues; Miles is a perfect example of it, with reference to his initial attitude towards Chandler as DI. But, even beyond that, he’d put in a good word for Riley when they’d lost McCormack.

‘On a personal level, I mean,’ Reynell adds, quickly looking between them. ‘He must have been a professional sort of fellow, and reliable, otherwise he wouldn’t have remained on my team for very long.’ He looks between them both with a shrewd look that usually heralds an obtrusive conversation. ‘Your angle is considerably more concerned with what sort of man he was then, not what sort of academic, is it not?’

‘I suppose so,’ Chandler admits.

‘In that case I cannot answer, beyond that he kept his head down. I’d remember if he did anything else. I did not, and do not, appreciate tomfoolery.’

Chandler reckons Reynell’s the sort of man who wouldn’t stand for an offhand joke, either, and he realises with a bit of a start that he doesn’t quite know when he became a man who would. 

‘They approached the subject from their realm of expertise, of course,’ Reynell continues, There were a few of them with similar backgrounds that worked more closely than I would have with them. The sheer amount of translation work, and the audio transcription… Beckett, West, Harding—but of course, you knew that—Calhoun—’

‘Calhoun isn’t credited,’ Chandler interrupts.

‘No, well, he wouldn’t have been.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘He pilfered a folder of work from another of the assistants—Harding, I think, but you’d have to check. Luckily whoever’s it was had already put it forward so it was clear who the original owner was.’ 

Reynell clucks his tongue and tightens his hold on the folio. ‘He was sent down for it, of course. Even if he hadn’t, there are no second chances around here. Never worked on another paper—not as far as I know, anyway. Certainly none of mine.’ 

Chandler and Miles exchange a significant look. Reynell misses it for his phone makes a sound announcing an email and he fishes the mobile out of a hidden pocket, replacing his reading glasses on his nose.

‘Would you happen to know where we could contact Calhoun?’ Chandler asks.

‘Last I heard he’d taken up a position as a youth worker somewhere in East Anglia,’ Reynell says, his tone unconcerned and disdainful. ‘Outreach for troubled youths. I suppose they think he’s more valuable for having been one.’

‘You don’t share that opinion, Mr Reynell?’

‘That isn’t my field of expertise, Inspector.’ He smiles, and it’s unsettling. ‘I couldn’t possibly say.’

*

‘What do you think of him, then?’ Chandler asks as they round the corner on the road where they’d left Miles’ car.

Miles makes a dismissive noise and says, ‘An arrogant arse.’

Chandler looks to the sky as if it’s about to offer sympathy. ‘I was hoping for something a little more insightful…’

The sergeant glances up at him with an expression that says he shouldn’t have expected anything else, but his infamous dismissive look’s interrupted by a tinny ringing from his coat pocket. He comes to a sudden stop on the pavement; Chandler follows suit, stepping out of the way of the group that’s been walking behind them, and Miles somehow manages to check every single one of his pockets apart from the one he actually keeps his phone in.

‘Bloody thing,’ he mutters when he finally squints at the screen, and for once Chandler actually has to audacity to chuckle.

‘DS Miles,’ the sergeant barks. He listens for a moment, then simply says, ‘Oh.’

The conversation’s so brief that Chandler hasn’t decided whether or not that soft exclamation heralds good or ill when, in a smooth movement Miles moves the phone away from his ear and holds it out to Chandler.

When there’s no reaction, Miles shoots him an exasperated look and says, ‘It’s for you.’

Chandler’s not chuckling anymore. Miles nods at the mobile, as if this is a common occurrence, and Chandler has little choice except to take it from him.

‘DI Chandler?’

(He phrases his own name as a question because no one has ever rung him through Miles’ phone before and, up until today, he’d been pretty sure that ringing on the off-chance that the person you wanted to speak to would be in someone else’s company was a relic of the previous century.)

‘Sorry, sir,’ Kent says, his voice as confused as Chandler’s. ‘I’m not sure what Skip’s up to—‘

The slight chuckle returns. ‘No, none of us are.’

There’s a spluttering in the background, then a low yelp that sounds a bit like Mansell getting elbowed in the ribs. It probably is.

Kent clears his throat, settling into what’s left of his professionalism. ‘Speakerphone, sir.’

Chandler’s inordinately glad they don’t often alter their conduct on the phone. ‘Anything to report?’

’There’s no record of Griffin’s name in the church records,’ Kent begins, but there’s a satisfaction in his voice that doesn’t particularly go with his words. ‘But they had a small fire in the early nineties and lost a considerable amount of documents. Apparently the local archive was seething at the time; they’d recommended flame-retardant storage but the rectory had put it off.’ 

Chandler sighs. ‘So we’re still where we started.’

‘Not quite, sir,’ Mansell says, chipping in with his typical enthusiasm. ‘We met with the current vicar. He didn’t recognise the name, far before his time, but when he showed him Griffin’s picture, he recognised his face.’

‘I thought you said he was before this man’s time?’

‘Course he is. This guy only started there five years ago, but he wrote up a history of the church last year, and he used photographs taken before he was there to pad out the pamphlet. Guess who’s in one?’ 

‘You’re joking.’

’No, sir,’ Kent interrupts, and Chandler can hear the smile. ‘We’ve even got a copy of the pamphlet, just to make sure.’

‘I suppose it’d be too much to have Harding in the frame, too?’

‘At the moment, yeah, probably.’ Kent sounds a little apologetic about that. ‘But the Revd Knox was very keen to help, and he managed to find the packet of photographs from the same event. We’ll have a look through them, see if he’s in there.’

‘Timestamps?’

‘Yup,’ Mansell says, popping the ‘ _p_ ’.

‘Excellent,’ Chandler says, his voice warm. He doesn’t often get to do that when it comes to the cases. ‘Good work.’

Kent makes a small, pleased sound that Chandler knows more intimately than he should, and maybe that’s why his goodbye’s a little brisk. Miles eyes him with a smirk that Chandler ignores the best he can.

’Something’s gone right, then?’ Miles asks as Chandler hands the mobile back. 

‘They’ve managed to place Griffin in Harding’s church. Photographic evidence.’

‘Was that the insightful comment you were looking for?’ 

Chandler huffs. ‘It’s the best I’m going to get, isn’t it?’

‘You got it in one, boss.’

Even if there’s supposed to be a degree of scorn in those words, Miles grins; they both know what being able to place Griffin in the right place at the right time means. Even Reynell’s information could be interesting—they’ve found no cold cases that look like they’re related before the eighties, so perhaps his assessment’s not far from the truth. Perhaps, when he knew Harding, he was as unassuming as he remembers, which would imply that whatever incited this happened after. Between that paper and the first murder. They can work with a timeframe; Chandler’ll even look into it himself until he can gets his hands on those photographs.

‘One thing does occur to me, though,’ he says, announcing the strange feeling that’s plagued him since the end of the interview.

Miles hums, mildly interested, although he’s paying more immediate attention to the loose paving slab under their feet.

‘No one’s got much of an opinion on him, do they? Apart from you,’ Chandler says, adding the last bit at Miles’ prompting glance. ‘It’s a bit strange, don’t you think?’

The sergeant shrugs and manages to isolate his car keys much quicker than he had his phone. ‘Not everyone has enemies, boss.’ 

‘True,’ Chandler says, watching a pair of students on the other side of the road juggle cups of takeaway coffee and overflowing files, ‘but no one has a good thing to say about Harding, either.’

‘No one’s sung his praises, you mean?’

‘Precisely. It’s very… neutral.’

Crafted, he’s trying to say. It must be rather difficult to maintain that sort of balance. An effort—a concentrated effort. It must be for a reason.

‘I know what you mean,’ Miles says as they reach his car. ‘People normally have someone who’ll say the sun shines out of their arse. It doesn’t sit right if no one does, does it?’

Chandler shakes his head, and it’s only when they’re halfway back to the station that he wonders if there might have been some subtext in that comment.

*

Kent and Mansell manage to get back into London just after lunchtime. Kent looks exhilarated but slightly harassed; Chandler can’t blame him because Mansell looks like he’s just had the most brilliant time and that’s never a good sign. Except it might be, because now they’ve got evidence linking Griffin and Harding, and that’s four out of five. More than enough for an arrest warrant.

‘Boss,’ Mansell says, shoving himself through the mostly-closed door to Chandler’s office. ‘You’ll want to have a look at these.’

And he does; the thing is that he’d expected an entire folder’s worth, except Mansell’s only holding out four or five. He frowns at him for a moment but takes them anyway, careful not to leave fingermarks on the glossy finish.

‘Kent couldn’t help himself,’ Mansell explains as Chandler organizes the images in a grid. ‘He sorted through them when we met traffic.’

Chandler almost smiles, because that does sound like Kent, but he knows better than to let a tell like that get very close to the surface at all. Instead he keeps his gaze fixed on the photographs, switching from one to another as soon as he spots a familiar face. It’s almost better than witness testimony, because there Harding is, speaking to someone who’s ostensibly pictured chatting to Griffin not seven minutes later.

‘Are these the only ones with familiar faces?’ he asks, quickly reordering the images so they run in chronological order. 

‘It looks like it,’ Mansell says, and there might be some insinuation that _You could ask Kent if he’d mind you having a look over his shoulder, sir_ smothered under his impatience to get the information out. ‘But the rest of the pictures are clearly at the same event. It’s the same group of people; they aren’t incidental.’

‘I suppose we could see if there are any more events on file,’ Chandler muses. ‘If Griffin was at this one, then he’s like to have been at others.’

‘There’s something better than that, sir,’ Mansell says, and this time he is serious. Chandler looks up to frown at him, mildly surprised at the concentration in his voice, but he follows Mansell’s indication as he taps on the corner of a photographs. ‘I reckon that’s a calendar. I can’t make out the date, but the month and year’s clear enough.’ 

And it is, if Chandler squints. April 1987. Less than thirty days away from the morning when Griffin’s body was found.

‘Tell Miles I’d like to speak with him,’ Chandler says, and before Mansell’s managed to nod and turn on his heel Chandler’s already half-dialed a familiar, though seldom-used, number.

He glances through the photographs, gaze lingering over Griffin’s soft-edged grin and Harding’s cool gaze, until the dialling’s replaced by the click of a phone being answered.

‘Joe.’ Commander Anderson’s voice is almost falsely warm. ‘It’s good to hear from you.’

Chandler knows he’s been slightly neglectful of certain aspects of his life recently; funnily enough he would have expected that thought to occur to him first with Kent’s name wrapped up in implication. Instead Chandler leans against the desktop, running his fingers over his forehead.

‘I’m sorry to say that it’s to do with a case,’ he admits.

‘Of course it is.’ The Commander doesn’t sound surprised. He’s always saying he’s like his father. ‘What do you need?’

‘An arrest warrant.’

‘Certainly,’ Anderson says, and neither of them have to ask why they’ve gone around the Chief Super. ‘Will first thing in the morning do?’

*

Kent and Mansell speak to Harding in the late afternoon. They don’t mention the scale of their operation, only David Brown, and inquire as to the vicar’s whereabouts on the evening of his death. Chandler’s unsurprised when they return with a nonanswer. _I was home, alone, all night_ isn’t an alibi. So Chandler puts one of the seconded uniforms on CCTV duty and tells them that if anyone, _anyone_ , who looks the least bit like Harding wanders past the cameras nearest St Oswalds’ within the time frame of the murder, he wants to know. It’s not perfect, it’s not an infallible method of corroborating—or disproving, as the case may be—an alibi, but it’ll do.

And although no call comes in overnight, when Chandler runs into Kent in the car park (entirely accidentally) the next morning, he’s optimistic enough to slide a hand across the back of his neck and pull a slightly surprised Kent into a brief kiss. They both know which spots are the blank ones, and it’s early enough for not many people to be milling about, so when he catches his breath Kent shoots Chandler a rosy smile and leans back towards him for another.

They’re understandably more somber in the incident room, with Miles standing at the doors to Chandler’s office. He raises a brow at their joint arrival but Kent just shakes his head and makes for his desk; Chandler attempts a silencing glance but he needn’t have bothered, because there’s a warrant already on his desk and this, _this_ , is the beginning.

‘D’you want to serve it, boss?’ Miles asks, smirking from where he’s leant against the doorframe.

Chandler shrugs off his coat, methodically places it on its hanger, and settles in his seat. ’Not personally, no.’

Miles raises a single brow, dubious.

‘He’s only ever had relatively neutral dealings with me,’ Chandler says, ‘And if we want a cooperative interview…’

‘Just because you’ve not hauled him in here doesn’t make him likely to talk to you.’

‘No, but my absence doesn’t make it less likely, either.’

That must make sense, because it had the night before when Chandler had pondered the logistics, and Miles nods as if he’s been more or less convinced. Though Chandler can understand if Miles would have enjoyed bringing him in himself. He was the one who spotted he was dodgy, after all.

‘To who are you bestowing the honour, then?’

‘Whom, Miles.’

There’s a sudden laugh, then: ‘Right, I forgot. You get insufferable when you’re in a good mood.’ 

Chandler considers correcting that erroneous observation as well, because he’s just as bothered about grammar when it’s all going wrong, but Miles is looking at him in a way that almost dares him to do it. And he’s not falling for that again, so he shakes his head with a tiny smile and turns back to the documentation.

‘Who gets it, then?’

‘I thought Riley and Kent could go.’

‘Did you, now?’

‘Don’t look at me like that, Miles,’ Chandler says, bristling slightly at the insinuation. ‘You can’t call it preferential.’

‘You know that’s not what I meant.’

Chandler lowers his voice even further. ‘I’m not going to stop sending him out just because we’re—’ 

‘Yes, all right, I get it,’ Miles interrupts, holding up both palms. ‘Not that I disagreed with you at any point.’

Chandler has the sense to look a little sheepish. He can still feel the warmth of Kent’s skin against his fingers, the press of their mouths, and perhaps that colours his defences. He wouldn’t be surprised if it’s colouring his face as well, judging from the way Miles is smirking again, and instead of saying anything else Chandler busies himself with the papers on his desk—the background information, the timeline, who was where when. If he’s supposed to conduct an interview, he’s got to know where he’s up to. 

‘Oi! Kent, Riley,’ Miles says as he turns and walks back towards their desks. ‘The boss has a job for you…’

*

‘Sir?’

Chandler looks up and immediately feels his face fall. Kent and Riley wouldn’t have brought Harding into the incident room, it’s so far outside of protocol that they wouldn’t even consider it, but from the way they’re walking towards the open door of his office tells anyone who’s looking that something’s not gone right. He places his pen down, parallel to the paperwork and gets to his feet himself.

‘Harding’s gone,’ Kent says when they meet him at the doorway.

‘Gone?’

Riley nods. ‘Gone.’

‘Shit.’ Chandler rakes a hand across his face, looking back towards his desk for a moment. ‘What are we looking at?’ 

‘His quarters are empty. Well, I say empty—’ Kent pauses, then shrugs. ‘It looks more like he’s gone on holiday. His things are still there, but some things are missing. There are gaps in his wardrobe, empty hangers, that sort of thing. We couldn’t find a mobile or wallet or anything of the sort. Laptop’s gone, too, but there’s a charger.’

Chandler nods; that’s something, at least. ‘Left in a hurry, then.’

‘The church cleaner was there when we arrived,’ Riley adds. ‘She said she’d last seen him yesterday evening, around half six or seven.’

‘When did you re-interview him?’ 

Riley looks towards Kent, who says, ‘Four o’clock, maybe five?’

‘How was he?’

‘At the time? Fine. Seemed happy enough to answer our questions. Said he was all for community liaison—though he wasn’t too keen on Mansell pointing out that we work in a completely different department.’ Kent almost smiles at that, but only almost. He frowns at the doorframe instead, and turns to Riley with a questioning glance. ‘Except, well, we didn’t even have to ask, did we?’

‘No. Mrs Merriweather—the cleaning lady, that is—she was more than ready to discuss how concerned she was about Harding.’

‘Concerned?’

‘She said he hadn’t been right last night. Snappy, although he apologised straightaway after. And absent-minded.’ Riley tilts Miles and Mansell a significant look as they approach with matching grave expressions. ‘He lit a candle just before she left, which isn’t abnormal, apparently. But he burnt his fingers, which is.’

‘Not paying attention,’ Chandler says, and it’s all starting to look like a picture they can work with.

‘Mrs Merriweather seemed to think so.’

‘Planning something else? Thinking of how to up and leave?’ 

‘I think so, boss.’

Mansell mutters one of his usual curses, somehow speaking all their minds at once. Chandler flips through all the information they know, each name and address and reference he’s kept in his brain for this precise moment. For when it matters. If they can’t do this now, then—

‘If he’s done a runner,’ Miles says, ‘then he’ll need funds. You can’t do anything without a credit card these days.’

‘Check the statements.’

Chandler barks it to no one in particular but it’s Mansell who’s closest to a desk and it’s him who seizes a chair and logs in at a speed that’s probably born of knowing how to lock a screen at breakneck speed. For once the talent’s come in useful, though, and he pulls up the relevant documents with time to spare to look through them.

‘There’s nothing unusual, boss,’ Mansell says, tilting the monitor so the rest of them can see. ‘No activity since Tuesday, and even then it was only a fiver to Sainsbury’s.’

Riley laughs once. ‘I can’t imagine a vicar in Sainsbury’s.’

‘They have to eat, you know,’ Mansell says, nudging her side with an elbow.

‘Nothing?’ Chandler asks, ignoring them and scanning the numbers.

‘Nothing. No massive withdrawal yesterday, as useful as that would be, and no further charges that would tell us where he’s gone.’

‘They can take a couple of days to show up,’ Miles reminds them.

Chandler shakes his head. ‘That’s not good enough.’

‘We could get a hold put on it,’ Kent suggests from Chandler’s shoulder, ‘and have it flag up next time he tries to use it?’

‘No, having his accounts frozen is as inconvenient for us as for him.’ Chandler’s aware he’s adopted a tone that’s more terse than is really necessary, but they had him, they’d almost _had_ him, and now they need something. ‘We need the trail.’

Kent pulls a disappointed face but nods nonetheless. The group of them stand around the computer, looking at both everything and nothing in particular, just in case the answer’s there but just offscreen. 

‘Wait a minute,’ he says, glancing back at the balance sheets and motioning towards Miles. ‘How often do you get cash out?’ 

Miles adopts a mock-affronted expression. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘ _Miles_.’

‘Not often,’ he says, chuckling. ‘Barely use it anymore. Never have any coins when I need them.’

Chandler’s heart goes a little faster as he indicates several similar transactions. ‘Look at this. Harding’s been getting fifty, seventy-five pounds out once or twice a week. There’s no pattern, really, just…’

‘That adds up quick.’

‘And it starts…’ He leans around Mansell and taps at the arrow keys, going back in time. ‘It starts the week we first spoke to him about reviewing his statement for the GBH.’

‘Spooked.’ Miles tuts. ‘The bastard. He was preparing, on the off chance.’

With the words, Chandler experiences that dreadfully familiar spike in sensation, that horrible feeling of exposure; had they shown their hand, or had he just had enough? Because if he has killed Brown, then he’s due a move. They may be looking into a series of murders in London but if Harding is responsible for all of them then he’s left the city between each one and come back to a different part. Maybe he’s got somewhere to go, somewhere to lie low. Somewhere just off the edge of the map or hidden in the binding. 

‘Kent,’ he says, looking towards the hovering warmth he knows is him. 

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Can you track down old records? See if Harding disappeared off the map for a while between posts?’

The question’s sharp but Kent nods with a determination in his eyes that Chandler’s seen directed at more than his work. Nevertheless he turns back towards his desk and flicks through their papers, his own research; before long he’s reaching for the phone and Chandler can’t excuse watching him out of the corner of his eye anymore.

‘Does Harding have a car?’ 

Riley shakes her head. ‘We’ve never seen one.’

‘He’s certainly had one in the past,’ Chandler says, thinking of those village churches, the tiny communities that Kent couldn’t fathom. ‘Maybe it’s in a lock-up somewhere.’

‘On it, boss.’

Then she slips away to the closest desk, leaving Chandler and Miles standing behind Mansell.

‘How far d’you reckon he could have gone overnight?’ Miles asks, and it’s not a hopeful tone.

Chandler doesn’t particularly want to think about it. 

‘Issue an all ports warning,’ he says, lowering his voice to match his undaunted expression. ‘This one’s not getting away from us.’

*

They needn’t have worried—he hadn’t gone far. An off-duty officer spots Harding on an allotment in Ealing, having only just caught the description before leaving for the day. He wastes no time in executing the warrant, and the call comes through to Chandler’s office before the patrol car’s even back on the main road. Happenstance isn’t often on their side; Chandler can’t help but feel a little optimistic when he puts the phone down. They all must notice the change in his face because they all abandon their work to hear the news, and Kent grins at him from the corner of his desk in a way that betrays more than pleasure at the breakthrough.

Riley nudges him with a wink. ‘Bit of a disappointment, though, eh? I was looking forward to hauling him in.’

‘However the job gets done,’ Kent says with a shrug, carefully avoiding her gaze.

‘The job’s just beginning,’ Chandler counters. ‘He’ll be transferred to our custody within the hour.’

Miles puts down the papers he’s been re-reading with a slap and pushes himself to his feet. ‘Best get a guest room ready.’

*

‘All right, boss?’

‘After you, Miles.’

Harding’s surprisingly calm as they walk in for a man who’s just tried to flee the scene. There are enough of them around that Chandler’s banking on him admitting to one, at least, or letting something slip. Yet he sits there in the provided plastic chair, an abandoned cup of tea at his elbow, much as he’d sat in reception that day. Hell, he might even look bored, and none of them are ever bored.

‘No stranger to interrogation rooms, are we, Mr Harding?’ Miles asks in lieu of a greeting as the uniformed officer shuts the door behind them.

‘On the contrary, Sergeant,’ Harding replies, sounding uninterested. ‘I’m more than familiar with interview rooms. But this is… ah… my first experience with the colder side of your police force.’

‘Ah, well.’ Miles takes his seat, unfazed. ‘Welcome back to Whitechapel. I assume you know why you’re here.’

Harding ignores him. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, DI Chandler.’

‘Have you?’

It’s only an offhand question, one that’s just there to fill the silence as he sits down and arranges his paperwork, but Harding smiles and it puts Chandler in mind of a shark. A hungry one.

‘I read the papers.’ 

The words are loaded with implication and Chandler suppresses the urge to flinch; he hates thinking about his own history with journalists, but when people put it that way… He knows that, on paper, he doesn’t look good. It’s a pity the full picture is restricted information.

Harding folds his arms. ‘I’d say how the mighty have fallen, but you were never mighty.’

Chandler’s mouth narrows, but he pushes through. ‘Can you tell me if you recognise this man, Mr Harding?’

He slides a photograph of David Brown across the table; he’s smiling, professional. This one’s the one they’d borrowed from the publishing company, a high-quality shot they used on their website. Harding unlinks his hands and reaches for the paper, drawing it slightly towards himself with an air of mild interest.

‘Certainly,’ he says, eventually, looking between both officers. ‘One Mr Brown, of Mile End, I believe. I’m afraid I can’t recall his first name. He contacted the Parish Office a few months ago to inquire as to whether he and his fianceé could marry in St Oswalds. I met with him then, purely professionally. There are some legal restrictions to sort out for these sorts of arrangements.’ 

‘Restrictions?’

‘About who can marry in the church. It’s all quite straightforward if you sort it out ahead of time. I believe his fiancée’s grandparents were married in the same building, which allows them to do the same.’

Chandler makes a mental note to have someone double-check that and slides another picture towards Harding; this time it’s the one of theirs, with the usual bloodstained composition.

‘Are you aware that, on the night of the ninth of October, David Brown was found dead in his flat?’

‘Yes.’ The response is flat, neutral. ‘As I said, I read the papers.’

This time it’s Miles who supplies the next photograph: Alexandra Cartwright, the photo used on her student ID.

‘And do you recognise this woman?’

Harding studies Cartwright’s face about as closely as he had Brown’s.

‘A very… disagreeable young woman,’ he says. ‘I met with her several years ago under the pretence of an interview for an academic publication. She was preparing a piece on shame, which I found to be very telling.’

‘You have a remarkable memory,’ Miles says, and there’s a sliver of animosity in his sincerity. ‘I assume you remember that Alexandra Cartwright was found dead by her flatmate on the morning of March 9, 2002.’ 

Harding doesn’t react. ‘I can’t say I do. Though I’ll take your word for it, Sergeant.’ 

Chandler  narrows his eyes and provides a picture of the scene, the pooling blood and her limp hand. He doesn’t linger but that’s proof enough for anyone, and he motions for another file. Miles hands it over without so much as a glance.

‘Did you live in Poplar in 1998, Mr Harding?’ he asks, keeping his tone genial.

Harding takes a moment to consider. ‘I believe I did.’

‘Near Bright Street?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘These remains,’ Chandler says, producing pictures of the scene, the skeleton, the mud, ‘were found in the back garden of a home on that street in September of this year. They date back to the mid-nineties.’

Harding’s eyes skitter over the photograph this time; he lingers over the image a little longer. Perhaps he hadn’t expected them to have this one. He might even look slightly taken aback by their knowledge this time; he’s by no means falling over himself in shock, although something falters in his face. Chandler shoots Miles a short look as Harding averts his gaze; Miles nods, once, and Chandler knows they’ve seen the same thing.

Miles clears his throat. ‘And this woman?’

They needn’t preface the questions anymore; it’s a series, one they both suspect Harding’s already recognised. Heather Mitchell’s face smiles up at them, watching. Chandler averts his eyes the best he can. 

‘I don’t believe I’ve had any dealings with her,’ Harding says, slowly, carefully, ‘except perhaps in one of my services. But, as you understand, I meet a lot of people.’ 

‘She was found dead in her flat in Hackney on the second of August, 1994.’

Miles wastes no time with the final image; this time it’s Jacob Griffin grinning at them all, his arm slung around another set of shoulders. Chandler reaches out to tap at the space above his head.

‘And this man?’

Harding looks between them for a moment before studying the faces, the background. When he looks up he’s got narrowed eyes, an antipathy to the set of his mouth. ‘I believe his name’s Griffin. He played quite an active role in the community of a church in Spitalfields where I was working in, oh… the late eighties?’

‘1987?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Then you’ll be aware that Jacob Griffin was found murdered in the May of that year.’

There’s a second’s hesitation, then: ‘I was only a new recruit at the time. I wasn’t in the pocket of every member of the congregation.’

Chandler fills the last empty spot in the pattern with the photograph of the crime scene in Griffin’s flat. ‘I thought you were responsible for the souls of your congregation, Mr Harding. Your words, not mine.’

Miles tuts. ‘Not an awful lot of care taken there.’

‘I beg to differ.’

And it’s in that moment, in those words, where they can see the horns that hold up his halo. Harding’s impenetrable expression falters into a mangled combination of pride and offence; they’ve found it, then, the soft underbelly, the chink in the armour. If that’s his definition of care then Chandler doesn’t want to know what he thinks neglect is, though he understands now that perhaps he thinks them guilty of it.

‘Do you, Mr Harding?’

‘Of course, Inspector.’ He tilts Chandler a smile that strikes of nothing but disdain. ‘You do have such a talent for misunderstanding,’ 

Miles leans to intercept his line of vision. ‘You can explain these, then?’

‘It looks like I’m going to have to.’ He holds his hands in front of him, the slim fingers framing something huge. ‘Redemption.’

‘Redemption?’

Harding nods. ‘Mine, not his.’

Miles: ‘Are they one and the same?’

‘Unfortunately, no.’

‘Do you care to elaborate, Mr Harding?

Miles, after a pause: ‘I suppose that it is clear to you that you have little choice in the matter.’

Harding looks straight at them after that, chin raised in slight defiance. He’s got the sort of eyes you’d avoid meeting, if possible, but Chandler forces himself to do it.

‘Do you look at all these people—’ Harding begins, waving a hand across the array of pictures between them. The movement’s so vigorous that a couple shift, overlap; Chandler resists the urge to straighten them. ‘—as blameless? Do you not wonder if they could have brought their destructions upon themselves?’

‘We have no reason to assume otherwise.’

Harding lets out a single, derisive laugh. ‘Then you are more short-sighted than I thought.’

Chandler opens both palms, an invitation. ‘Then enlighten me, Mr Harding.’

He wonders, briefly, after he’s said it whether or not that was also a challenge. It seems to have been interpreted as one, because Harding’s regarding him with a peculiar look that suggests he hadn’t thought they’d have the guts. Well, they aren’t all lily-livered, and as the silence stretches thinner and thinner Chandler keeps his gaze steady. If this is a game of standing his ground, he’s more than capable.

He’s about to call for a pause to the interview when Harding unfolds his arms and lets out a put-upon sigh.

‘When I was young—a student, unordained.’ He pauses, as if recalling something he hasn’t thought of in years is a surprise. ‘I was published.’

‘We are aware.’ Miles sits back, crosses his arms. ‘We’ve spoken with your supervisor at the time.’

‘Stuart Reynell?’ Harding scoffs. ‘Reynell’s an idiot.’

There’s a certain part of Chandler that agrees, and he smothers it down with such vehemence he almost surprises himself. He’s got no doubt that Reynell’s an intelligent man, but even he’d got the impression that he was relatively short-sighted. His vision cuts off when it gets far enough away from himself. It wouldn’t particularly surprise him if certain events escaped his notice. 

‘Another student was struck off during that work. Calhoun. Stole my contribution, apparently,’ Harding continues, and instead of sounding resentful, there’s a note of triumph in his voice. ‘Only, in reality, I stole his.’

Miles sits forward again, frowning. ‘I fail to see how this is relevant.’

Harding shrugs. ‘I met a woman.’

Now, if there was one way this was going to go, Chandler wouldn’t have thought it would be that way. It must show on his face, because Harding holds up a placating hand and shakes his head as if this is the most tedious experience of his life.

‘No, no, I was not that way inclined,’ he explains. ‘Not towards her, anyway. I was in my late twenties. She… well, she must be in her seventies by now. And before you ask, I never caught her name. She just came up to be at a university do, something to do with promotion. She certainly knew my name.’

Chandler frowns. ‘Do you have any idea how?’

‘Not the foggiest, Inspector.’ Harding fixes him with a stern look. ‘It wasn’t names that mattered. She… reminded me of my transgressions.’

Now that is more troubling. Chandler can understand catching someone’s name, being pointed in their direction. But that? That’s the surface of something else.

‘The hypocrisy,’ Harding continues, either missing or ignoring the look Miles shoots Chandler. ‘That I stood for truth and goodness and I was building it all on pillars of salt. That I’d done more than I thought I had—that I’d let someone else take the fall.’

‘Calhoun,’ Miles supplies.

Harding nods, his mouth a grim line. ‘Afterwards his mouth shall be filled with gravel.’

Chandler doesn’t immediately place the reference, but apparently Miles does, because he nods in a way that implies understanding.

‘How did you spit it all out, then?’ he asks.

‘I… struggled with a plan of action, for a while,’ Harding says, slowly, carefully,meaningfully. ‘The woman I mentioned before—she, well. She reminded me of my own history, and that of my scholarship. Of retribution as redemption, Sergeant. Reparations.’

Chandler doesn’t like where this is going, because he knows the ending, he knows _all_ of the endings. And for what? This?

‘I took what she said to heart. She made a lot of sense.’

Chandler doesn’t think she did, not from what Harding recalls. But it doesn’t really matter what he thinks is believable or not, does it? What matters is that Harding thought that the idea was a sound one. That he thought the concept was worth pursuing. It must have cemented itself in his mind as a sort of revelation because even now it lights up his eyes. He is certain that his position’s firmly in the realm of the right, and Chandler can’t help but wonder where that places them.

‘I’ll start from the beginning, shall I?’ Harding asks, his tone carefully irritated although he’s clearly dying to tell them now—to put them right, to make his case to a captive audience. ‘That is, after all, generally what you ask of witnesses.’

Miles nods. ‘And where exactly is the beginning, Mr Harding?’ 

‘As far as you’re concerned, Jacob Griffin.’ He throws a gesture in the direction of the man’s picture. ‘He’d been vying for a position on the vestry, in particular that of treasurer. He ended up settling for church warden.’ He pauses for another moment, tutting at the image. ‘No wonder he was grinning. He’s had his hand in the till from the very first week. A very nice supplemental income for someone so _dedicated_ to their position.’ 

‘And this didn’t sit well with you?’ 

‘Does it sit well with you, Inspector?’

Chandler has to shake his head. 

‘Precisely. Yet nobody else linked the disappearance of funds to Griffin. You see, they all liked him. Thought him incapable of such a thing. But I knew. And I dealt with it.’ He shrugs, as if that statement’s not a confession. ‘We lost no more money that summer.’ 

Chandler can’t help but think it’s no wonder the church lost records, that they lost any evidence of Griffin’s intimate involvement. The rest of them couldn’t have not put two and two together once he’d died. Evidence in absence. Shame does a great many things, and perhaps they carried Harding’s forgotten lot as well, because he sits there just like a man who hasn’t said that he killed his colleague. 

He taps Heather Mitchell’s photograph. ‘I suspect that you haven’t found her name on any paper connected to mine.’

Miles inclines his head slightly in Chandler’s direction, and with a momentary blink Chandler authorises that silent shake of the head that answers Harding’s question.

‘That’s because she needn’t have been known to me. If she hadn’t been having an affair with her supervisor, then I would never have known. No one would have, probably.’ Harding adopts a plaintive tone. ‘I do read the papers, after all, and they were very complimentary of her intellectual prowess.’

‘I fail to see how her relationship had anything to do with you, Mr Harding.’

(And if Chandler hears himself go a little defensive with those word, well, he’s not going to acknowledge it.)

‘Oh, it didn’t. If I paid attention to every adulterer I’d have no time to myself. I’d barely have five minutes between executions.’ There’s such levity in his voice. ‘In any case, it’s reprehensible, not illegal.’

‘And what is it you allege Ms Mitchell was doing that contravened the bounds of the law?’

‘You know, already, that she was an accountant, and that she was sleeping with her boss.’ Harding says it as if he’s reading a checklist, ticking off how she failed to meet a required standard. ‘She was stupid enough to think that he’d leave his wife and children for her. She’d been fiddling the books for years, embezzling company money for their apparently inevitable elopement. Poor Mr Baines didn’t know. It was rather a shock for him when she showed up at services one morning. I daresay she probably had her bags packed.’

‘Where was this?’ Miles asks.

‘Oh, you must know all these logistical details already, but I’ll humour you. Hackney, the summer of 1994. The Baines family attended a church where I was acting as assistant curate.’

‘None of this explains how you came to know the ins and outs of her rationalisations, Mr Harding.’

‘Oh, they had a blazing row in the churchyard. Stone is brilliant for carrying sound, sirs.’

He addresses the sentence to them both but lets his piercing gaze settle on Chandler alone. _And in my profession, you get used to watching_.

‘Allen.’ Harding continues on regardless. ‘I suppose you could call him a professional troublemaker, although he had no profession to speak of.’ He regards the photograph of the man’s bones as if he can recognise his face in them. ‘Gave his sister a lot of grief.’

‘Elizabeth Dogwell.’

Harding nods. ‘She confided in me. You’re supposed to listen and give advice, in my position.’

Miles scoffs. ‘You took on a little more than that.’

‘Oh, you mustn’t think that I’m saying she knew,’ he says, as there’s a slight, tempered version of warning in his voice. ‘She knew about everything he did, of course. Even tried to excuse it, once or twice, before she realised I wasn’t in agreement. There was just… so much, and he never got more than a slap on the wrist for it. Elizabeth, on the other hand…  Let’s just say it was soon clear that nothing would be done unless I did it myself.’ 

Chandler wants to intercept, to say something that might actually be straightforward and definitively proven one way or the other, but Harding doesn’t give him much of a chance.

‘And not only was she,’ Harding says, suddenly turning towards Cartwright’s face lain flat against the table, ‘slandering a good number of my colleagues and our profession, but she was doing so on a forged footing.’

Chandler inclines his head in half a nod. ‘Her proposal.’

‘Was in question.’ Harding fills in. ‘We met, several times. I suppose I thought I might be able to speak to her, offer another side to the argument. She wasn’t interested.’ He shrugs. ‘She took a call, once. I couldn’t help but overhear.’

‘Remind you of yourself, did she?’ Miles asks, arching a brow.

Harding’s lip curls; distaste drapes itself over his features. ‘The similarity did not escape my notice.’

‘And David Brown?’ Chandler prompts, before Harding decides he’s had enough of them.

‘Crooked as they come,’ he snaps, rounding an impatient glance on Chandler. ‘I’m sure you’re familiar with what that looks like.’

For a moment Chandler almost flings back a retort—something, anything—but he can’t put the words together. He does know what it looks like: Fitzgerald, Cazenove. Miles has a similar furious undercurrent simmering, Chandler can tell, because even with all their failings the one thing their team is not is corrupt. They can pride themselves on that at the very least, and Chandler does.

Harding knows where to push.

He clearly always has.

‘But why—?' 

Chandler gestures over the pictures spread out in front of them, the carnage, the sheer terror of it all. The stillness. The crimson. The inherent fear. Why did he go so far? If he wanted to execute warrants for crimes punishable by death then he went several steps too far. It’s almost sacrilegious to say it but they probably wouldn’t be the ones working this case if it was just a series of stranglings. They never would have put it all together. To be so definitive, to have such a _signature,_ is his own death sentence. 

Harding’s face doesn’t change, although in his mouth there is a snarl. ‘He that is filthy, let him be filthy still.’

‘A bit extreme, don’t you think?’

‘Theft is theft, Sergeant.’ His accent takes on a brisk imperial clip. ‘One for one.’

Chandler almost says _Who gave you the scythe?_ but reins himself in. Neither of them have a responsibility of judgement. That’s another division entirely and Chandler’s almost ready to hand it over. But Harding takes another breath and it’s clear they’re not quite finished.

‘We live in these… clumsy things,’ he says, with an expression caught somewhere between a sneer and a sneeze, gesturing towards his body. ‘And enough people stagger around, causing as much damage as they possibly can. Except they don’t even notice—’

Something chilling fingers its way up Chandler’s spine. They are not on the same side. They _aren’t_. 

‘—and nobody else seems to, either. And if you won’t, I will.’ 

Miles leans forward, bracing his hands on the edge of the table, before Chandler has a chance to gather enough words.

‘Do not delude yourself, Mr Harding, into thinking that our conceptions of a job well done are in any way similar.’

‘Your track record says otherwise, Sergeant.’ 

He may have said _Sergeant_ but he looks at Chandler, his gaze hard and unflinching. ‘The scum also rises.’

Chandler bristles but somehow manages to keep its visual manifestations to a tightening of his fists as he fights down the automatic defence of his position. He’s had to trot it out for enough people, but this time doesn’t matter. Harding can think what he wants about him. They’ve got the upper hand. 

‘Justice in this country is abysmal, if you don’t mind me saying so, sirs.’ Harding’s eyes flare like sodium in water. ‘ _Abysmal_.’

He glares at them for a moment longer then settles back and deliberately loosens his fists and spreads his hands upon the desk; the fingers are trembling, slightly. It’s the sort of thing Chandler only notices because it happens to him. Harding’s voice, on the other hand, is steady and harsh.

(Chandler wishes he’s never heard something similar come from himself, too.)

‘I am more than willing,’ Harding continues, raising his pale gaze from the table, ‘to put my name to something that was more successful than your efforts.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: 11 August 2014. (Final chapter, eeek!)
> 
> Only one more update now! I can't believe we're this close to the end--and, as always, thank you so much for all the support, comments, and kudos you've all left along the way. I hope you've enjoyed this update! x


	12. Chapter 12

Somehow, they all manage to crowd into Chandler’s office. Even Ed’s squeezed into a corner, watching with a half-horrified, half-curious expression, and Miles occupies one of the chairs with an air of discontent that puts them all on edge.

‘It’s all hearsay!’ he snaps after a long moment’s silence.

‘Pseudo-confession,’ Chandler says, voice hushed.

Miles lets out a singular laugh. ‘I’m not sure we’re qualified for that.’

‘Aren’t we?’

Chandler thinks it’s all they do. He scrubs a hand over his face and sighs, thinking of the recording and wondering when he can give it another listen, when he can make sure that everything he thinks he’s just heard actually was uttered aloud. It’s almost too easy, although it isn’t the first time one of their perps has been dying to explain themselves, to reveal their genius or their supposed righteousness. There’s probably more of it to come; they’ve only suspended the interview, after all, and Harding seems more than willing.

‘There’s a list of other forces that want to have a go at him, boss,’ Mansell says, managing for once to pick the right time to remind them all of a complication. ‘It’s not just our jurisdiction.’ 

Kent nods in agreement, arms folded as he stands at his colleagues’ shoulder. ‘Even if this confession doesn’t add up, having it keeps him here. We already know he’s a flight risk. He’s certainly not going to wait around for Thames Valley and the rest to send officers down unless he’s not got a choice.’

‘You’re proposing a waiting game.'

‘What else has this been?’ Ed asks, his voice incredulous, as if he’s not seen this before. ‘He’s been waiting for the best part of thirty years.’

‘Christ.’ Mansell breathes out in a rush and shakes his head. ‘When you put it that way.’

‘Forty-eight hours can’t hurt,’ Chandler says after a moment’s consideration; he places both hands flat on his desk and sorts through what needs to be done. ‘We have some time before we’re allowed to resume the interview. Double-check everything that we’ve just learnt. Any names we’ve not already spoken to—get them on the phone, see them in person where possible. The accountancy firm—get files. I want evidence of the fraud.’ He pauses for a beat, then decides: ‘The publisher’s, too. Get on to IT again, see if they’ve found anything that’s encrypted. Put a rush on his personal laptop, too. And his phone—all those numbers need re-checking.’

Miles pushes himself to his feet. ‘They can’t fob us off now we’ve got this.’ 

Chandler nods, then adds: ‘Everything—everything—needs to be more than hearsay. He’s told us where to look, so look.’

A tremor of impulse spreads through them with Chandler’s words, his instructions, and he’s just about to stand up himself to go and do his bit when another body pushes its way into the incident room. Chandler quickly recognises him as one of the young PCs, a relatively new recruit compared to the rest of them, but the way he’s running towards them sends a cold shock of dread down Chandler’s spine. He moves through his officers towards the doorway.

‘Sir—!’

‘Yes?’

(He sounds professional but there’s something lurking behind the acknowledgement, something tremulous and terrified.)

‘There’s—‘ He trips over the syllables for a second, heaves to catch his breath. ‘There’s been an incident. The holding cells—’

Chandler’s stomach plummets. ‘You’re not saying…?’

‘Ambulance is on its way, sir.’

Then Miles is shouting something gruff, something about officers knowing CPR and how long, _how long_ , but Chandler barely hears any of it. Horror rushes over him like a petrol-fueled fire, and somewhere in his brain he wonders if that might not be better than going through all of this again.

He can only hope that he slips into autopilot instead of self-destruct.

* 

The hospital’s verdict—dead on arrival—arrives at the same time the deep search of Harding’s rooms yields a handful of full bottles of beta-blockers. He’d been collecting his prescriptions but not actually taking the pills; his GP confirms that he hadn’t been in for a routine appointment although they’d rescheduled several times. She doesn’t sound surprised that it’s a massive heart attack that got him in the end. Apparently she’s been expecting it, and asks when she’ll be called in for the inquest.

Chandler doesn’t know the answer—mainly because he doesn’t seem to be able to think straight anymore. His training pays off because he says something appropriately vague and professional that must pass muster as an answer because he places the phone down with an audible click and doesn’t feel as if he’s just cut a conversation short. The file in his hands suddenly feels heavy, like lead, like embers cradled in his fingers; he turns and hands it off to Riley, who looks at him like you’d look at someone who’s just found a body, but he can’t answer her questions when he can’t even answer his own. Mansell’s smile loses all of its cheek as he passes his desk.

There’s nothing to be smiling about, anyway, though Mansell always seems to try. Chandler can’t help but feel as if they’ve been thrust into a terrible reversal of roles—the confessor and the damned stepping into each others’ shoes. Chandler’s never wanted to be anybody’s executioner but that’s probably one metaphor too far.

Panic turns the cradle of his ribs into a cage. It shocks him more than he’s willing to admit, this out-of-the-blue terror, this foil. They had him, they _had_ him and like all the others he slipped through their fingers like water, like sand, like time across distance, and the only way he can describe this feeling is that it’s what being in one of Dali’s paintings must be like, going slowly and watching events rush forwards without you, in front of you. It’s a wonder he manages to sit down on the closest bench without sinking straight through the floor.

It’s Kent who comes after him. Chandler doesn’t know whether or not he’s been sent or he’s just decided to do it on his own, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? The end result’s the same and he doesn’t want to deal with it either way. They were so close, _so_ close. This is insult added to injury, with their killer dead in his cell from his own hand and he didn’t even need to try. He didn’t need clever tricks or backwards heroics or a final stand. He just gave up. He got his relief. The _bastard_.

Kent sits at Chandler’s side for a while, listening to him breathe. Chandler doesn’t speak, doesn’t acknowledge his presence. His fingers twitch, minutely and perhaps not at all, and Kent’s gaze focuses on the inside of Chandler’s wrist, where his pulse beats strong and steady. It’s sickening, how disconnected he feels; Chandler feels as if his body’s running away with him, as if his heart’s missing steps and stumbling and only just makes it for the next footfall, but it’s not.

He feels as if he’s shaking, trembling, _buzzing_ but everything’s so dreadfully, dreadfully still.

‘Sir.’ Kent enunciates slowly and softly, so that nobody else can hear. ‘It’s not your fault.’

Chandler runs a hand across his knee, smoothing out invisible creases. ‘Negligence is a crime, Kent.’

‘That isn’t—’ Kent sounds as surprised as Chandler’s level tone as its owner is. ‘That’s not what happened here.’

‘There will be plenty who disagree,’ Chandler says, a heavy lump sinking low in his stomach. ‘Starting with the Chief Super.’

He’s starting to wonder if some of this panic, this personal horror, stems from fear. He wouldn’t be especially surprised—someone with his background has enough repercussions to fear. He may have had the Commander’s support but that’s been revoked once before; he has no guarantees left.

Kent touches at the outside of his wrist, the jut of bone where his sleeve’s inched back. ‘That’s not what bothers you most, though, is it?’

No. And he’s trying not to think about it.

‘I don’t need a superior officer to tell me when I’ve fucked up,’ Chandler says, the hollow turning into a species of snarl, one he’s met before on his own fact. ‘I don’t need my officers doing it, either.’

‘ _You_ haven’t done anything.’

‘That’s the bloody problem.’ 

‘Sir.’

He sounds like a kicked pup. Chandler hates himself for kicking him but he can’t take it back now and Kent’s regarding him with wide, wounded eyes. Surely he understands? He must know, he must be able to gauge the gravity of this situation. Of what it means. What it might herald.

‘He's not just gone on a bit ahead, he's bloody _dead_.’ Chandler rounds on Kent, straightening his back, as if looking like a DI will make him feel like one. ‘It took us _years_ to find him.’ Except that’s not strictly true. ‘It took us _years_ to realise he needed finding, and he’s in my custody for six hours and he’s dead.’

‘That’s not your fault. That’s not any of our faults.’ Kent isn’t shouting but he might as well be; Chandler feels as if he should be flinching. Perhaps he does. Perhaps that’s why Kent’s voice loses a little of its quiet ferocity, although he’s still firm. ‘That’s his own fault.’

‘He shouldn’t have had the choice,’ Chandler counters in a low voice.

‘He didn’t,’ Kent murmurs, as if that’s comforting, as if that’s not more terrifying than the other option. ‘He couldn’t have known his heart would give out today. It was just… luck.’

A bitter laugh escapes him, more honest for being unintended. ‘They seem to have all of that, don’t they?’

Anyone else would say that they don’t, because they’re all dead and how is that a product of luck? But Kent says nothing. Chandler leans his head back slightly, staring blindly at the cracking ceiling and the faulty lightbulbs. There’s decay in them somewhere, just like it’s in this building, except Chandler doesn’t even know where to begin looking. He can’t tell if he wants to, anymore. It’s obviously winning.

‘Tell me, honestly,’ Kent begins, still solid at his side although looking carefully away; his face is even more telling than his voice, no doubt, and Chandler’s almost thankful for the removal of the reminder. ‘You don’t really believe that anyone blames you?’

Kent says it in a sort of placating voice that only makes Chandler panic a little more, because it’s a question that shouldn’t need an answer. Of course he does. The Ripper getting away was his fault, actually, that’s a fact none of them can get away from; he had him in his hands, in his grip, but he chose to hold Miles, to press his blood back in. He brought in Jimmy and Johnny Brooks and they met their deaths in the station, in these four walls; if they’d remained where they were, would they be dead? He’s never known the answer. He’s tried to reason with everyone else, plead with them, and perhaps that’s what made their minds up. 

‘For any of it?’ Kent prompts, his tone a little lower, a little more disbelieving.

For all of it, actually. His name’s on all the files. His name’s the one in all the papers. Someone has to be responsible, that’s how it works. And it’s him. He’s always known that one day he’ll face his own firing squad; he just hadn’t expected it to be today.

‘Joe—’

‘No,’ Chandler interrupts; the strangled concern in Kent’s voice is too much. ‘Not now.’

Kent looks to him then, falling silent. Chandler allows himself a brief glance, a moment’s offering, but all he feels is a little closer to the edge so when Kent narrows his already small, unsure mouth, he knows. He doesn’t understand, but he knows. With a short sigh Kent raises his hand to pat at Chandler’s shoulder; he uses the leverage to push himself to his feet. A premature sense of loss grips Chandler, and he turns away; he doesn’t watch him go because it feels too much like a premonition. His footsteps mingle with the rest of the sounds of the station, the noise in Chandler’s head and he can’t place where he’s gone, which direction he’d taken.

‘Boss?’

Miles’ voice cuts through; he’s businesslike but careful and keeping a hold on the door. Chandler raises his head from where he’d propped it up with his hands, elbows braced against his knees.

For once, Miles doesn’t offer any of his unconventional wisdom. ‘The Commander wants a word.’ 

Chandler gives a long, tattered sigh. ‘I’m on my way.’

He doesn’t even care that he suspects Miles has just watched that entire interaction from the threshold of the incident room. Feeling about as stable as nitroglycerine Chandler gets to his feet and tries to pull himself together.

The problem is he’s done it so many times before that he’s not entirely sure where any of the pieces go anymore.

*

When he gets back to Whitechapel, Miles has already sent everyone home. Chandler can see why—there’s nothing else to do, nothing that can’t wait, they aren’t on time limits anymore—but it still puts him on edge. It just serves to highlight what’s happened. What he’s done. What he hasn’t done. He can’t even really articulate it but he’d wanted to see Kent. He shouldn’t, because he’s managed to throw a spanner into those works, too, but he’d still looked for his face.

Maybe that’s what had made Miles bark at him from the chair he’d commandeered in Chandler’s office that he wouldn’t be leaving until Chandler did. He isn’t having him wallow in the station overnight, apparently. Chandler hasn’t planned on it, but they’ve already established that he doesn’t exactly have to, haven’t they?

Chandler fully intends to go back to his flat. It all starts to fall apart when there’s a diversion on his usual route—late filming, it looks like, for a programme with a ridiculous name and apparently ridiculous night shoots. The suspended road sends him far enough away from his stomping ground that he’s not entirely confident about directions; he’s working on instinct, which he doesn’t like to do but before long he’s somehow managed to navigate to the end of Kent’s road. It doesn’t particularly surprise him, since he’s been here plenty of times before and he _had_ thought that the streets were starting to look oddly familiar, but it’s one of those realizations he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

But he can’t sit there blocking the street, either, so when he spots a gap in the parked cars on the side of the road he makes for it; it’s only when he notices that it’s directly opposite a butcher’s that he falters and moves along. It wouldn’t usually bother him, but when he’s just failed all of them—he can’t, he can’t sit and think next to a window of carcasses. It’s a horrible way to think of someone but he doesn’t want to, it’s just a gut reaction. He’ll be better in the morning. (Hopefully.)

The next space is actually closer to Kent’s flat, although Chandler’s not sure whether or not that’s a good thing. He maneuvers the car into it regardless, and as the engine goes quiet Chandler finds that his mind doesn’t. He doesn’t know why he thought it would.

It never does.

All the lights on the dashboard burn blue in the nighttime light, dimming only slightly as he twists the key free and curls the metal into his palm, letting the ridges bite into his lifeline. They stare at him like they know something he doesn’t and the glow echoes on his eyes as he stares out into the street, onto the pavements and across the tiny darkened patches of lawns. He still doesn’t know what he’s doing with himself, but at least for a moment he can feel as if he’s not running anymore.

Chandler’s suddenly aware phone's ringing, a soft, insistent purr against his ribs, and although he doesn’t want to he has to check, has to answer. It’s his duty to, but as if to prove the pure callousness of the world it’s only an email. Something from his mobile provider about switching to electronic bills, and Chandler deletes the message with a vehemence he usually reserves for things that actually deserve it. The feeling dissolves away as he sits there, mobile in hand, and for a terrible moment he experiences the same feeling he had when he’d got lost as a boy, wandered away from the path. A vague and formless fear, not quite terror but certainly threatening it.

He hadn’t coped then, not really, and he doesn’t now. Not really.

He opens and scrolls through his contacts list almost without looking; Kent’s name is one that would be well-thumbed, if his phone was an actual address book. It, in itself, should feel familiar—it almost does. But neither of them are of the generation who grew up with touch screens and there’s something incredibly impersonal about it, about the lack of paper, and in the space of a second Chandler misses pen and paper and ink and Kent’s skin, the weight of him.

It’s ridiculous, but he still presses the call button. He doesn’t really know why. He half expects Kent not to bother picking up at all, because it’s gone ten and he said some things and he wouldn’t want to speak with him either. But he does, after what feels like an inordinate amount of rings but what was probably only two or three, and he sounds like he usually does. Or perhaps that’s just wishful thinking.

‘Hello,’ Kent says, forgoing any sort of name. They know who they both are, don’t they? 

‘I, um,’ Chandler says, more determined than eloquent, staring at the steering wheel until his vision blurs. ‘I wanted to speak to you.’

There’s a hum, then, ‘Okay.’ 

‘I mean,’( _God_ , he normally needs a drink to do this), ‘see you and speak to you.’ 

‘Right.’ Kent does sound a little confused now, perhaps a little ruffled, but Chandler will take what he can get. ‘Well, I can—’

‘I, um. I’m outside.’

Chandler wants to wince even as he says it. He’s more than aware of how it sounds; he doesn’t like it, either, and if Kent just tells him to piss off and come back tomorrow then he’d completely understand. In fact, he almost decides to do that anyway because Kent’s end of the line is still silent, save for a low background murmur of something warm and comfortable, neither of which Chandler is at the moment. He can’t even think of blaming Kent for wanting that instead of him.

‘You can tell me to go—’

‘No, it’s fine, don’t move.’ There’s a rustling that sounds like a coat, then a singular raised questioning voice that Kent ignores. ‘I’m coming down.’

Then the line’s cut, and Chandler can’t tell which one of them did it. He tries to convince himself that it doesn’t mean anything anyway, that actually it was probably just one of them losing signal since no where in London seems capable of maintaining any sort of decent network, but he shoves his phone back into a pocket and undoes the seatbelt, almost shoving himself out of the car door. Once he’s out and standing in the cold he feels more of a fool than ever, standing on this street with his hands in his pockets and looking at nothing in particular. He could attempt to feign nonchalance, perhaps lean on something, but he doesn’t even trust his own car as a perch and it’d be such a plain-faced lie that even Kent would laugh as if he’d just morphed into Miles.

Kent finally appears, pulling the painted door shut behind him, and walks down the path with his hands buried in his coat pockets, his back hunched against the wind. It doesn’t take him long to notice where he’s stood, and there’s a slight interruption in his gait as he walks towards him that one part of Chandler thinks is relief and another’s sure is annoyance. He can’t be sure which.

‘Nothing’s gone on, has it?’ Kent asks as he comes to a stop, tone soft enough but not exactly affable. 

Chandler shakes his head, looking at the pavement at Kent’s feet. He almost wishes that something had, because then he’d have something obvious to say instead of this vague, nebulous feeling. A hedge rustles but it’s just a pigeon emerging from the prickly undergrowth and for a moment Chandler follows its movement, meets its beady little eyes. Except maybe he doesn’t, because it’s probably a trick of the light and he can’t think of a reason why a pigeon would want to look at him, let alone Kent.

Except he is, and his expression’s nowhere near as stony as Chandler reckons he deserves. It’s chilly, it’s not the warmth he’s got used to,  but all that’s lingering just beneath the surface. Chandler  can see it, the expression that Kent had hidden at the station, and for a moment he’s desperate to see that look, to wallow in his own misery holding on to someone else’s sympathy. But that’s terribly unfair, and he knows it, and it’s one of the reasons he’s offered to Kent way back when, to try and warn him off. And just because he didn’t heed that warning doesn’t mean Chandler should prove its veracity. 

Instead, he clears his throat and says, ‘I apologise for being short with you.’

‘You were just doing your job.’ 

Kent’s voice is not relaxed at all. The words are strung tightly together.

And he hadn’t been doing his job at all.

'I didn’t mean to be a bastard—'

'Really? You seemed quite intent on it.'

There’s no short, false laugh that goes with that statement. There should be. Chandler knows the format. Yet the venom that really should be there, the words an injection, is absent. Kent looks at him then glances away, worrying his bottom lip with a canine, and the sharpness he’s aspiring to doesn’t quite work.

‘Sorry,’ Chandler murmurs, shoving his own hands back into his pockets.

‘It’s…’

Chandler wills him not say it’s all right, because it’s not all right, none of it’s okay.

But he doesn’t. Kent just sighs, looks up and down the length of the road and says, ‘I can’t blame you.’

‘You think I’m barking.’

‘No, I think you think you’re Atlas.’

Chandler doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s familiar with the myth, of course, but not with the long-suffering, resigned tone of voice. He wants to fix that and fix himself and fix everything that’s gone wrong but he can’t even put two words together. He doesn’t know where in the dictionary to start.

‘I’m not angry. I’m not,’ Kent says, quietly. He fixes Chandler with a look, then shrugs and looks away, kicking at a rogue piece of gravel. ‘Not with you, anyway.’

There’s a burst of laugher from a nearby flat, floating through an open window; Kent looks towards it but Chandler keeps his gaze forward, watching the slight variations in the night air as a gentle breeze buffets fallen leaves in and out of the shaft of light offered by a streetlamp. He’s grateful for that, for the slight reprieve, and he almost says it, but he doesn’t get a chance. Kent turns back to him and sighs, as if he knows. (He probably does.) 

‘You can’t fix everything,’ he says, and this time the words are firm.

‘I don’t know why I try,’ Chandler says on a self-indulgent sigh; he looks to the other end of the street, over Kent’s shoulder. ‘I can’t even fix myself.’

Kent huffs. ‘That’s not what I meant.' 

‘I know,’ Chandler admits.

They settle into another silence, one that should sharpen their problems but for some reason most of them stay blunt, stay memory. The thin chill cuts through Chandler’s coat and he doesn’t want to think about if Kent is shaking, because the coat he’s pulled on is much thinner than his usual one and Chandler knows, now, that he feels the cold.

Some of the tension seems to go out of Kent's bearing. ‘Have you been home?’

Chandler’s almost forgotten he has such a thing. He’s barely thought of turning to it, because it’s never offered him comfort. There’s never been anything there that can take his mind off what he spends his days sorting through, clearing up, shutting down. He doesn’t even particularly want to go now, when there’s not much else at all for him to do, because all it will do is scream his situation back at him. Remind him how far he’s come ( _not very_ ). How far there is to go ( _miles_ ).

‘No. Not yet.’ He heaves out another sigh, and looks towards the main road. ‘I had a meeting with the Commander.’

‘Yeah, Skip said.’

Chandler can feel Kent’s eyes on the side of his face. He doesn’t really want to think about them talking about him, but they must, because that’s how everything happened and he can’t fault either of them for their concern. When he doesn’t immediately offer any information Kent leans towards him, cocking his head to try and catch his gaze.

‘Am I allowed to ask?’ 

‘I’ve still got my job.’ Chandler makes a noise that isn’t quite an angry huff, but isn’t a sigh either. ‘Though I think that’s because nobody else wants it.’ He pauses, considers whether or not he can say it without losing his level tone. ‘I’ve been told to take a few days off.’

Chandler doesn’t want to think about how he’s supposed to manage that. He’d probably ignore it and come in anyway if there wasn’t the threat of taking all his future days off hanging over his head, and that really is an unthinkable prospect. He’ll do one day. He can manage that much without vodka. Still, he very well may still go mad.

‘I suppose you’ll want to be on your own.’

‘Not, um… not necessarily.’

_Not tonight_ is what he means, although he doesn’t know why. It must be the case, though, because otherwise why would he be there, talking in hushed voices to Kent on the street outside his flat when there’s a spattering of drizzle threatening to turn into something worse. It’s the sort of thing he only usually does when there’s a body involved. 

Except there is, isn’t there?

Chandler feels like he’s shouting for help at the edge, holding on to a cliff with broken fingers. As if he’s holding on to something that wants to let go.

‘I don’t—’ He tries, and when the sentence doesn’t come out easily he grimaces and looks towards the crumbling brick, the struggling single-glazed windows of the ground floor. ‘I don’t know what I want, exactly.’

Kent’s mouth curves into a sad smile, and he finally reaches out to lay a hand on Chandler’s arm. ‘You don’t know what’s good for you, either.’

That’s true, at least. Chandler can hold on to that just like Kent’s holding on to his arm, slipping his grip to Chandler’s wrist for a moment. The chill of his fingers weaves between the layers of fabric and settle against Chandler’s skin, but he doesn’t shiver.

‘If worst comes to worst,’ Kent says, glancing back towards the front door. ‘I can kip on the sofa.’

The anxiety lingers, but Kent’s words hems it in. There might be something unsaid in them—that he’d rather he wasn’t alone, that he’d be coming home with him even if he hadn’t asked—but Chandler nods and breathes out a sigh of something that’s not quite relief. There’s a slight loosening in his chest; the feeling doesn’t go, he still feels as if he’s about to topple over into some deep and impenetrable crevice, but that’s Kent’s hand on his wrist. There’s no reason why that should help at all, and yet… 

He feels slightly more adrift when Kent removes that touch, that connection, but he just mentions something about needing his phone and to tell his flatmates that no, he’s not been kidnapped, please stop bringing it up, and he stands and waits as Kent slips back into the building, the door shutting in the quiet night almost as it had that first night. Chandler’s as alone in his head as he had been then, and the night’s the same, yet the door opens again and it’s not the finality that he’d expected then.

‘Anyway,’ Kent says as he rejoins Chandler on the pavement, a slight smile on his face as he tucks his keys into a pocket. ‘It’s Ed who’s Atlas.’ 

‘What?’

Kent lays a hand on the small of Chandler’s back, nudging him towards the car. ‘Just something he said on his first day.’

* 

As it turns out, Kent doesn’t end up on the sofa.

They don’t say much. Chandler doesn’t know what he’d say even if he had the inclination. He just knows that for some reason it’s… well, it’s not _better_ because he doesn’t feel as if anything can be _better_ quite yet. 

He still feels like he always does. This shock, this self-antagonism. It’s just like that feeling when he’s just just a little too much to drink, when his sight doesn’t quite match up to the speed of his eyes. It’s all strangely disembodied for being so personally intense. As if he’s drunk and hungover all at once. It usually feels dangerous, like teetering on a ledge, but he doesn’t feel quite as close to the edge as he usually does.

It’s funny, really, how just having Kent making tea in his kitchen can do that.

* 

Chandler goes to bed first—not because he’s tired, but because he can’t think of anything else to do.

It’s times like these when, occasionally, he wonders if he might be better off if he was interested in sex. It’s what people do to forget, isn’t it? He’s got no such luxury. There’s always vodka, he supposes, or scotch, but sometimes he can’t even be bothered with that. Drinking’s an effort. He’s never been able to find out how to just stop, to just pause for a moment, even when he’s in a job that virtually requires the skill as a preventative measure. They’ve lost too many officers that way.

In some ways, Chandler’s just waiting for the day he runs himself aground. In others, he wonders if it hasn’t already happened.

The experiences of the evening have left him wounded and alert and he couldn’t relax even if he’d wanted to, but he forces himself to lie there and stare at the inside of his eyelids. It doesn’t help that he can hear the thump of his heartbeat, feel it against the sheets; his skin feels threadbare, as if he’s scrubbed at it for too long. It’s an effort to stay still, to stay there, but he forces his muscles to relax. It’s not calming but it’s an exercise in restraint and God knows he needs those.

He’s buried his face in his pillow to shield himself from the light, but despite his best efforts his eyes eventually open and he can tell when Kent pushes the door open a little bit further and slips into the room. He only half hears his quiet movements, the quiet fuss of clothes, the faint running of a tap. Something in his throat’s uncomfortable and his thick swallowing doesn’t particularly help, but that doesn’t stop him trying. He’s a natural self-flagellant.

When Kent displaces the balance of the mattress with his weight, Chandler briefly considers feigning sleep. Yet even as he thinks it he knows it can’t work, because he’d know and if he knows then Kent’ll be able to tell and he’ll have to explain himself and he can’t even _think_ of what to say. The gentle heat of him’s a deceiving comfort, he knows, yet he still allows himself to turn submissive—meek—when he’s usually anything but. Kent settles next to him, quiet and somehow supportive, under his thighs are tucked behind Chandler’s, the beat of his heart a dull thud against his back. Chandler can’t decide if that’s a reminder that he’s all right or of what he’s seen ended a hundred times over.

Chandler’s eyes close and he gives a deep, needy sigh. He doesn’t know what he needs but it’s something, isn’t it? He can’t go on like this, except he has to, except there’s no other way. Once something’s happened you can’t go back. Good or bad. He can’t go back to not thinking that Kent has a place in his flat—in his bed, in his life—just as much as he can’t go back to thinking that he’s the future of the Met, the one slated for greatness.

He never should have let the Commander say any of it. He should never have let him put words in his father’s mouth.

He never should have let him put ideas into his head.

Kent presses his mouth to the crook of Chandler’s shoulder, not quite a kiss. Chandler presses back and lets the rhythm of Kent’s breaths dictate his own.

‘I’m probably not going to sleep,’ he says, feeling Kent’s shoulder shake with effort.

‘No,’ Kent admits in a quiet voice, shifting so he can weave an arm under Chandler’s. ‘But it’ll put some distance between today and tomorrow, if you do.’

Chandler knows that distance means nothing. Not in the short term—you need years to put things behind you, to do it properly. He needs longer than most. He’s still not sorted through everything from his first two decades, let alone the rest, except it’s the rest that matters and it’s the rest that takes up the last remaining space in his head. He can’t help but think of the surety in Harding’s voice, the hard confidence, the snarl and the silence. And yet he knew he was on borrowed time. He took more when he wanted it, damn the interest.

Somebody else might think he paid that debt back, now. A forfeit. Maybe he’d said as much.

‘What do you think he meant?’ Chandler asks, words disembodied in the dark. He knows they were all listening in. ‘About the woman?' 

Kent shushes him, kissing his shoulder. ‘Not now.’

The atmosphere’s so thick and his head’s splitting at the seams and he can’t not think, not really, he has to but he sighs and the knowledge lingers, despite the pain of swallowing. Kent strokes at the plane of his chest, his fingers restless as they usually are, and Chandler tries to follow their paths, learn their trails. He can’t because there are none but he’ll try just like he always does.

‘You’re allowed off days, you know,’ Kent says with the kind of soft reasonableness that one uses with a child. ‘Bad ones, even.’

He’s trying to sound flippant even though they both know there is nothing flippant about this. Even if there could be, Chandler’s not the sort of man who would seek it out. He can’t see that far, not anymore. Kent knows that, and that’s probably why he lays his head between Chandler’s shoulder blades and presses a tender kiss to the jut of scapula, a pointless gesture. Chandler can’t muster up the energy to tell him not to bother, and Kent’s arm is a warm weight against his side as he waits for sleep to fold in on him.

Kent’s breathing leveling out should feel like an insult, but Chandler only used to be that sort of man, years ago. Now he lies in the dark, watching nothing and everything, as Kent slips further away. His hand still rests next to where Chandler’s left his, and every now and then there’s a frisson of movement, a slight touch of fingers, as if even in sleep Kent knows he’s there to reassure. Not to fix—because they can’t, they settled that—but to keep him from retreating so far into his own head.

Not to say that it’s going to be all right, but perhaps that it might not be as bad as he thought.

*

Morning is morning.

He knows something’s off before he’s even awake but it’s only when he blinks the sleep away from his eyes and finds Kent picking up his mobile phone from the bedside table, already in his suit, that he really remembers. Then he feels a bit sick and has to sit up, cradling his head in his hands. The motion feels tremulous and he knows already that he won’t be getting to his feet anytime soon.

‘I’ll come back after, yeah?’ Kent flexes his fingers around Chandler’s shoulder, almost as if he’s holding his hand. ‘If you don’t mind.’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Miles will probably ring.’

‘I’ll remember to turn my phone off, then.’

‘Please, don’t.’

There’s a lurch in Kent’s words that makes Chandler pause all of a sudden, mid-press against his eyes. It’s fear. It must be, because Kent’s avoiding his gaze and he does that when he doesn’t want him to see what he’s thinking—he hasn’t done that in a while. Not in a long time. Is it that bad? Had he been that bad? That what he might do inspires fear in the rest of them?

‘All right,’ he says. ‘I won’t.’

Then, like some sort of prophecy, Kent’s phone rings and he has to answer. He shoots Chandler an apologetic look but it only gets waved away; they don’t need those apologies, not now, they both understand the needs of the job. They don’t like them and they can barely live with them but they understand them.

Chandler knows he can’t stay in bed. Well, he could, but he’d probably never get out again. He’s trained himself too well to be up every morning to just suddenly stop. So he lets Kent go, gives it twenty minutes or so from when the door slams shut and gets up. He dawdles a bit longer over his tea and breakfast just because he can—and a little bit because going through the motions is better than standing there and contemplating everything. Chandler knows he’s going to do it, because that’s what he does and being on a day of all but enforced leave doesn’t help, but if he’s got to remember how long it’s been since he poured boiling water onto a tea bag then it’s less of his mind that’s running away with him.

If he doesn’t do anything it all comes rushing back in a sickly wave, so he makes sure he’s always doing something. He’d had plenty of practice at it, after all. He does all the jobs he’d usually leave until his day off. He forces himself to go out, to walk down the street and look at the world carrying on, and he comes back with a half-pint of milk that he doesn’t strictly need. The Commander rings, briefly, in the afternoon, except he’s Anderson in this conversation and Chandler can tell he’s actually trying to hear vodka in his voice.

His phone goes again just before end of shift; it’s more than a habit to notice the time in those terms. Miles barks something suitably gruff, mutters that he doesn’t care what Head Desk says and he’s to come back in tomorrow, he’s not having him wallowing, and that Kent’ll probably fill him in on what’s gone on while he’s been away. And yet again, Miles proves he’s got some sort of psychic ability, because that’s when there’s a knock on the door. Miles shoos him off and Kent looks at him with wary eyes once he’s shut the door behind them both.

Chandler doesn’t know what to ask. He wants to know, he wants the information, but he’s not sure what the question is he’s looking for.

‘It’s not as bad as you think,’ Kent says, catching his both his eye and the unasked question. ‘There’ll be a media blackout, at least for the moment.’

‘For the duration of an investigation?’

‘Unavoidable.’

Chandler nods; he doesn’t want to avoid one.

Kent takes off his coat and hangs it next to Chandler’s. ‘Though, I’m not sure they’ll need very long. It’s plain, what happened. And you’re all on camera from the moment Harding arrived at the station to when he was returned to the holding cells.’

That may be the case, but neither Kent saying it nor Chandler going through it, replaying the events, helps to settle his nerves. On the surface there’s no conclusion other than _unfortunate accident_ : the arresting officer from Ealing was with Harding until he’d been booked into Whitechapel, then the custody sergeant, then them and the uniformed officer who sat in on the interview. Even Kent and the rest of them can bear witness to what went on in that room—they watched, listened, observed. When they’d suspended—ended—the interview, there had been a handful of individuals charged with responsibility. No one went wrong… except they must have. Somewhere. Somehow.

Chandler clears his throat just for something to do. ‘Is Llewellyn doing the PM?’

Kent hums in assent. Something coiled tight in Chandler’s chest loosens ever so slightly; he can trust her. He won’t doubt what she finds. That, at least, is out of his hands, and it’s one of the few times in his life he’s been glad to think that. He’s so used to blaming himself, it’s his first plan of action because it usually works out that way, but if Llewellyn’s the one writing the report that’s one less thing he can doubt.

‘Skip says to give these to you,’ Kent says, extending the hand of files in Chandler’s direction as he walks through to the kitchen. ‘Also, he says to say that you didn’t see them until you came back to work, if anyone asks.’

He flicks through the papers as quickly as he can, to get the dismayed feeling over with. Except it’s all there, in black and white. What he’d asked to be found the previous day. Chandler glances up and searches Kent’s expression; he’s sure his own is surprised, at the very least, and Kent offers him an encouraging smile that even now Chandler’s sure he doesn’t quite deserve. He looks down to the file again and looks at the information properly. It’s damning. It’s brilliant.

But he swallows down the pride because it means nothing at all, now, and places the closed file onto the counter between them.

‘Anything else Miles wants me to know?’ Chandler asks, nudging the edges of the stiff, folded card into place.

‘He said _not_ to say this,’ Kent says, with the lopsided smile, with the half-bout of humour, ‘but he told me to only be nice to you for a day.’

Chandler finds himself frowning. ‘And then what?’

‘And then I think I’m supposed to take a leaf out of his book and approach any dealings with you with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp.’

He can just imagine that—on Miles. Kent’s another story all together.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not actually going to,’ Kent says, daring another covert smile as he approaches. ‘I don’t take everything Miles says as gospel.’ He lays a gentle hand on Chandler’s waist as he reaches past him for the kettle. ‘And I think he’s got the tough love part covered.’

Chandler supposes Kent means that he’s got the other part covered, too. The gentle part. He stands aside automatically to let Kent manoeuvre around him, get on with the things that should be normal and reassuring, get for some reason he still feels bereft. What’s gone isn’t immediately apparent, because strictly speaking nothing’s moved, but something’s not there anymore.

‘I presume there’s paperwork they’ll make me do,’ he says, on a sigh, and it’s almost a joke.

‘Oh, loads.’ Kent grins as if they’ve just made a breakthrough and Chandler feels like a liar. ‘We’ve just had Ed order a new filing cabinet for your office.’

The words miss their target; the tone’s on the wrong field entirely and Chandler can’t believe he tried to coax it back into the room. Kent notices his shift in demeanour immediately, the slightly steeper slump of his shoulders, and the way his face changes is almost painful. 

He shifts his own tone to something quieter, confessional. ‘Lots of policing is just luck.’

‘Maybe not lots.’

‘No, maybe not lots, but more than you’d expect,’ Kent allows, and he holds Chandler’s gaze with determination. ‘You’ve got to speak to the right people, have the right ideas, make the right connections—and all at the right time. It’s a miracle we get anything done. I’m consistently amazed by the court documents Ed whips out, you know. They were working on miles less than we’ve got and they got results.’

‘Don’t rub it in.’

‘You get results. We get results.’ The words are almost a plea for him to believe them. ‘And anyone lurking in Ed’s files would think that our perps get what what coming to them.’

In any other situation, Chandler would beg to differ. There are certain trains of thought that would suggest that although punishment by death was the prescription, death alone was not sufficient. An execution wasn’t the same as an expiration—still isn’t. There isn’t any intent. Retribution shouldn’t be incidental. There is no compassion in condemning someone to death. They may not have wept when nature got there first, beat them to the punch, but there was no justice in it. Only absence. Omission. 

But he gets the point and nods in Kent’s direction, taking note of the soft concern in his mouth.

‘I don’t want to argue.’

‘Neither do I,’ Kent says, then as if to underline the sentiment, he continues. ‘I’m not arguing with you. It’s just that if you reckon you’re the only one who’s spent today thinking then you’ve got another thing coming.’

It’s probably telling, but Chandler can’t think of anything to say to that.

‘You know,’ Kent begins, leaning to switch off the kettle as it comes to a noisy boil. ‘You didn’t fail.’ 

Chandler just looks at him.

‘You didn’t.’ The words contain more emphasis yet Chandler can’t quite believe them. ‘We brought him in. We had more than enough to charge him and,’ He pauses, nodding towards the files on the counter, ‘we were about to present a whole lot more. I know it’s probably not the done thing to say, but the end result’s the same, isn’t it?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘All right, Harding died. You can’t—couldn’t—do anything about that.’ Kent lifts his hand from the counter as if he’s about to reach for him, but he thinks again and tugs at the edge of his jacket instead. ‘But either way, we stopped him, and from what we can tell, he wasn’t about to do that of his own accord.’

‘Evading capture and evading judicial proceedings are not the same thing.’ He rubs the back of his hand viciously against his mouth. ‘The world revolves around blame, Em.’

Kent catches Chandler’s wrist and draws it away, his fingers gentle and coaxing as he murmurs, ‘The world is not a courtroom.’

‘There’ll be headlines. _Man dies in police custody_.’

(He doesn’t even want to think about the likelihood of puns.)

‘Who, in this scenario,’ Kent asks, slowly, ‘do you think is the judge and jury?'

Chandler has no answer, save perhaps _everyone_. He’s not sure anymore whether or not this is just a selfish reaction, a desperation to prove his worth when he’s been thwarted every time, or if it’s fear, if it’s terror that he won’t be given another chance. And if it is, he doesn’t know who he expects to take it away: his superiors, his team, the public, the outcry. There’s nowhere to look. 

Kent’s face softly turns grieved. ‘No punishment’s going to be good enough for you unless it comes from your own hands, is it?’

As if to underline his words, he brushes a slight touch across the back of Chandler’s hand, lingering briefly along his knuckles. Chandler wishes he could bring himself to twist his wrist to grasp Kent’s fingers, but he can’t, and he doesn’t. At least he’d know where he was up to with that. He’d know what it meant and where it stops. He’d know where the fault lines are and where the weak spots crumble, and if he knew that, he’d know how to put himself back together.

‘You don’t need fixing.’ Something in Kent’s mouth twitches as he observes the change in Chandler’s face; it’s not a smile. ‘Whatever you think.’ 

Chandler doesn’t nod, because he doesn’t quite agree, but he looks away all the same. The edge of the counter gleams, and that’s his fault, too. With a doleful sound, Kent approaches him with an outstretched arm, with no intent further than closeness, and Chandler lets him grasp at the back of his shirt and pull him into an odd, lopsided embrace. Neither of them have dared to do anything like this in daylight since the previous morning, when they’d been optimistic and wallowing in the calm before the storm.

Kent’s hand lingers on the small of his back, and with a rush of breath, Chandler turns into the refuge of Kent’s curls. It makes no difference.

‘We look for reasons,’ Kent murmurs into the space between them, his voice low and somehow wise even as he sniffs and presses against Chandler’s breastbone. ‘We’re the last thing left when we can’t find any, so we think we are the reason. A logical fallacy, but a powerful one.’

‘There’s got to be something,’ he murmurs back, and perhaps that’s a plea.

‘Sometimes there’s not a reason,’ Kent says, and for a moment he rests his mouth against Chandler’s shoulder. ‘I learned that a long time ago.’

Chandler wonders if he should ask, but he muses over it for too long and Kent unhooks his arm from Chandler’s waist and steps away. 

‘Put the kettle on again, will you? I reckon I need a shower.'

*

It’s Miles’ pragmatism that gets him through the next day at work. The phrase ‘It's going to be shit, but we've got to do it,’ features enough for it to be branded on Chandler’s forehead, the very front of his brain. They meet with the Chief Super and the DCI who’ll be in charge of the investigation into Harding’s death, and for once Chandler’s pleased to see a familiar face. DCI Robinson hasn’t been stationed at Whitechapel for as long as he has, but he’s a good copper. Miles and the others sometimes mutter about him being wedded to protocol, but in this case, Chandler reckons it’s probably a good thing.

The first wave of relief is shocking, and it comes with Robinson’s friendly chuckle and assertion that he doesn’t know why they’re bothering to put the money into an investigation at all, really, and that all he’ll need is the CCTV and a few statements, not to worry.

They’re spared the injustice of another team coming in and removing all their files; Robinson says he doesn’t strictly need them until the afternoon, and there’s no reason to treat them as if they’re about to tamper with anything. He’s known them both for too long to even imply that they would, he says, and it’s probably in his best interest to let them make sure it’s all in order. Their meticulousness is legendary, apparently. Chandler’s grateful for the vote of confidence, and Kent even murmurs, ‘I told you you’re not the villain,’ when he wanders into Chandler’s office to collect one of the boxes. 

He might just be starting to believe it. A little. But how to any of them know, really?

The process is a world away from what it would have been when he’d first arrived in Whitechapel. Even Mansell’s managed to maintain a relatively organised system of the papers in his possession, and in the end it’s just a matter of logistics. There are more boxes than there are people willing to ferry them, and without the small army of carts Ed’s commandeered and somehow managed to get down to the basements, they gear up for several trips.

Chandler stays back to clear off the last of the detritus from the whiteboards, the things that don’t need to be handed over. The very faint outline of that score tally’s still there, a shadow of a memory from when they’d first heard Alexandra Cartwright’s name, and he scrubs at it with a vehemence that might suggest that’s his penance. He feels strangely disembodied standing there in the centre of the room as all the others move around him. He’s not even sure which one’s Kent, and he’s always been rather good at picking him out of a crowd.

It’s Miles tramping back into the room, gruffly muttering something about ‘You’re giving Buchan a run for his money with these, boss,’ that brings him back. Even so, the sergeant doesn’t stand around and wait for an answer, so Chandler watches him lug another box towards the doors and exchange comic grimaces with his teammates as they criss-cross paths.

‘Couldn’t give me a hand, could you?’ Kent asks, catching Mansell’s eye passes him on the landing.

‘Course not.’

‘What?’ Kent’s tone is sharp as he adjusts his grip on the boxes. ‘You’re not carrying anything.’

Mansell grins, bright and cocky, the glint back in his eye. ‘Has no one told you about the seventy-eight organs and the eight pints of blood?’

‘Sod off,’ Kent mutters, but it’s interspersed with a laugh, and Mansell cuffs him around the shoulder.

It shouldn’t make Chandler feel better. It shouldn’t have any bearing on his feelings at all. It’s just a joke, and a bad one at that, but the way Riley shows up out of nowhere and whacks Mansell around the back of the head with a handful of rolled-up forms is so hellishly _normal_ that, for a moment, Chandler’s reminded that it’s not all terrible. It is mostly bad, there’s an inquest to get through and a hundred more instances where Chandler’s going to have to stand in front of a panel of his superiors and explain to them (again) and make his excuses ( _again_ ) but he will cope. Won’t he? He has before. 

At least he’s got experience going for him.

*

The inquest comes back with the verdict they all expect: natural causes.

Chandler had insisted on going although his role in the proceedings had already been fulfilled; Miles had insisted on going with him, because he’s an idiot and hasn’t he already told him he needs a nanny? Chandler would have said that he can survive half an hour unsupervised, thank you very much, but when they all filed out it was two shadows that stretched over the pavement, not one.

Nothing new gets called in. Chandler’s not sure whether he’s annoyed or grateful, because there’s nothing to distract him but there’s also something simmering just beneath his skin that asks for a little longer, a day more, before another case. Age and exhaustion call for more time to rest, but this time  there isn’t even the snarl of paperwork to act as an excuse; it’s all been done, double-checked and submitted.

Yet there’s no call, no body, and no case. End of shift comes and goes and Chandler finds himself in his flat—first alone, then complemented—listening to his own heart thud a heavy beat against the inside of his ribs. Kent, who’d arrived with a shy smile and a distinct lack of questions, ends up a deadweight against Chandler’s side, the sleep-rhythm of his breathing strangely calming.

It’s then that a call comes through. Not _the_ call, because that’d be to Chandler’s mobile unless it’s otherwise out of action, and the sound that tears Chandler away from the surreal cocoon is his landline. Which is startling enough on any day, but this time reaching for it’s unnatural enough without him trying to do it as quickly as he possibly can. He might not be able to sleep until he really can’t avoid it, but he still doesn’t want to cheat Kent out of any shut-eye.

‘DI Chandler,’ he says as soon as he gets the handset close enough to speak into. 

‘It’s not like you to not answer your mobile,’ Miles barks.

‘Yes, sorry.’ Chandler knows he sounds absent-minded ; he’s a little busy making sure Kent hasn’t stirred. ‘It’s on silent. I think.’

The sergeant makes another derisive sound that says he doesn’t think much of that explanation, either. Chandler might make some sort of noise in return, but if he does he’s not about to admit to it.

There’s a short pause, then: ‘You aren’t having a wobbly, are you?’ 

‘No,’ Chandler says. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Good, because I was just about to send Kent round to make sure you hadn’t done anything stupid.’

Chandler’s tempted to roll his eyes, but instead he just says, ‘He’s already here.’

To be honest, Chandler suspects that Kent’s had the same idea. Though it’s not unusual for him to come round, is it? He’s spent more time in Chandler’s flat than his own in the past few months. He’s spent every night there since they lost Harding—he can bear to think it now without reaching for the nearest bottle of vodka—and Chandler’s yet to feel like he wants his own space back. Being with Kent is like being alone, if that makes any sort of sense.

‘Is he now?’ Miles asks. His tone’s leading.

‘Hmm.’

‘Is that why you’ve gone oddly quiet?’

‘He’s, um…’ Chandler pauses, vaguely aware he’s been weaving his fingers through the back of Kent’s hair. ‘He’s asleep.’ 

Miles tuts, as if that’s a non-problem. ‘Well, go in another room, then.’ 

Strictly speaking, that is a potential solution. Chandler just finds that he doesn’t particularly want to. For the first time in days he’s actually relaxed—perhaps not at peace, or untroubled, but certainly gentled enough to have let Kent nudge and prod him into a slouch that rendered his side a suitable cushion. Perhaps he should have asked as to why Kent wanted to curl up on the sofa and drift off lying there half in Chandler’s lap, but he hadn’t, and for once Chandler thinks that’s an answer he can probably do without.

‘I—well—‘ Kent’s head is a warm, heavy weight against his side as he takes a steadying breath. ‘That’s not really an option.’ 

‘Ah, so he’s one of those types.’ Miles chuckles, ‘Like boxing an octopus.’

Chandler prefers a comparison to an oversized housecat, but he doesn’t say so. Miles doesn’t need to know that. He knows far too much already.

‘All right,’ he says, the amusement clear even from the other end of the line. ‘Have it your way. Just don’t come complaining to me about your back when he’s made you sit there for hours. If that kid could win medals in anything…’

Miles trails off; the joke doesn’t quite land because it’s at that moment that Kent chooses to make a small noise of annoyance. Chandler’s known this side of him for long enough now to know that it wasn’t one of those involuntary things he sometimes says in sleep but a precursor to wakefulness. For a mad moment Chandler wants to tell Miles off, except if it’s hardly his fault, beyond the fact that they’re on the phone at all. Chandler could have just silenced the handset and sat back undisturbed.

But he has responsibilities, and more of them than you’d expect involve answering the phone.

Kent stirs slightly and, with a half-asleep yawn, asks, ‘Nothing’s come in, has it?’

‘No, you’re all right,’ Chandler murmurs, stroking a finger behind his ear.

Kent’s mouth curves into a smile. Chandler’s does, too, probably, except he’s not going to think about that and there’s a slight twinge of guilt in his chest as he realises that the first thing Kent thinks as he struggles out of sleep is whether or not he has to be on his way to a crime scene in the next five minutes. 

Miles makes another sarcastic sound over the phone line. ‘God, you’re as daft as he is.’

‘That’s sort of the point, isn’t it?'

Chandler says it not quite thinking what it implies. But it’s true, isn’t it? He is as daft as Kent, to use Miles’ terminology. And whatever it is that means—what it really, really means—doesn’t escape Miles because he makes another sound that sounds like a victory. Perhaps he just won another fifty quid off someone in the office. Probably Riley. She’d had a sort of look about her.

‘Anyway,’ he says, aware of the silence stretching into something knowing and uncomfortable. ‘What was it you wanted?’

Dread fingers its way down Chandler’s spine as he realises he may have just made a false promise; it wouldn’t be the first time Miles has tarried in telling him they’ve got work to do.

‘Never mind,’ Miles says. ‘It’s clear you’re already in capable hands.’

Chandler decides on a sigh instead of an argument. We’ll see you tomorrow, Miles.’

He ends the line before the rusty chuckle can greet him; he knows its there, because it must be and Chandler can hear it in his head already without having to listen to it. Instead he focuses on the way Kent stretches slightly, arching in a way that only serves to extend the feline metaphor.

‘What did Miles want?’ he asks, his voice still low and crackly. 

Chandler looks at the phone still in his hand. ‘Actually, I’m not sure.’

Kent chuckles and adjusts his balance so he doesn’t accidentally slip off the cushions. ‘Sounds about right.’

He’s made of acute angles like this, sleepy smiles. God knows how he can sleep, but he can. Maybe it’s another trick from spending years in uniform, catching forty winks whenever the opportunity arises, but Chandler forgets where he’s going with that train of thought as Kent brushes a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

He lays a hand on Kent’s chest in the ensuing silence, his fingers absent-mindedly running over the buttons. ‘Em?’

Kent hums.

Chandler’s momentarily distracted by Kent’s heart beating thick and slow under his fingers. ‘Are you happy?’

There’s no immediate answer. Kent simply opens his eyes and looks up at him, gauging. Chandler knows that they’ve had this conversation, that he’s had this answer once before, but that was then and this is now and they’ve packed an awful lot into the days in between.

‘Are you kidding?’ he says, tone soft and sincere. ‘I’ve dreamt of this for years.’

Chandler huffs a small laugh. ‘Miles wasn’t joking, then.’

‘When?’ Kent frowns a little, as if he’s sure he’s missed something obvious. ‘Now?’ 

‘No, ages ago,’ Chandler says, shaking his head and gentling the concern with a stroke of his palm. ‘He said, and I quote, a lack of shagging hadn’t put you off.’ 

Kent looks at him for a moment then laughs, turning to muffle the sound against Chandler’s side. There might be some muted words along the lines of _sorry, sorry_ and _your face_ , but Chandler will forgive those because it’s Kent and he’s starting to think he’ll forgive most things he does.

‘Well, he wasn’t wrong. He still isn’t,’ Kent says, pausing in a sidetracked manner to smooth out Chandler’s shirt. Then he breathes in and adds, ‘Not much could put me off you, to be honest.’

‘Not even this?’

Chandler knows Kent knows what he means. Miles’ phone call’s just the tip of the iceberg. The way they’re all stepping carefully around him hasn’t escaped his notice. It’s not obvious, and it probably won’t last beyond the week, but Chandler still can’t bring himself to actually tell them they don’t have to bother. That they shouldn’t, even if they did have to. Kent adopts a similar strategy as the rest of them in the incident room, but Kent hasn’t reached out to pull him into a kiss for a few days and it doesn’t take a genius to tell that it’s because he’s reverted back to trying not to spook him. Chandler doesn’t know why but he misses that more than most other things.

‘No,’ Kent says, reaching up to touch briefly at the side of Chandler’s neck. ‘Especially not this.’

‘I don’t want to always react like this—‘

’I know.’ Kent’s hand shifts, squeezes at Chandler’s shoulder, then falls back to lie across his stomach. ‘It’s all right. I don’t mind.’

‘You should.’

(He should run. As fast as he can. But instead he’s curled up in Chandler’s lap and he’s not about to be shifted.)

‘Well, I _mind_ ,’ Kent says with a rueful smile, ‘but not for my sake. For yours.’

Somehow Chandler’s gaze catches on Kent’s as the words come out, and he can’t keep looking at him, not when his throat feels like it’s closing. Yet unlike the dread that usually comes with that sensation, Chandler watches the edges of his flat’s walls with a vague warmth in his chest, wondering how the world’s managed to shrink down to just their imprint, just the gentle in-and-out of Kent’s chest under his hand. He’s still feeling for the edges of this new, bright thing, this surge of affection, as he runs his thumb across the edge of Kent’s collar.

Kent reaches up and grasps Chandler’s wrist, awkwardly stroking at the bone as he looks up to meet Chandler’s eye. ‘You all right?’

It’s a simple enough question; it’s just one that he’s never quite been able to answer. Chandler’s never been sure. He’s thought one thing then had it disproven; he’s been confident then had it broken. He’s watched his own mind run him aground and he’s let it do it. He’s fought and he’s won, and he’s fought and he’s lost. And no matter what anyone says, he’ll always think that there must have been something, somewhere, that he could have done to make the case end in a way other than how it did. 

And yet, none of that feels like the answer.

Chandler breathes in deep and grasps for Kent’s hand.

‘Yeah,’ he says, and it’s a quiet revelation. ‘Yeah, I think so.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, here we are. The end of the last chapter. I hope it didn't disappoint and that you all enjoyed it! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for all the support, comments, kudos and feedback for this fic, over the month or so I've been posting. You've all been so lovely and I can only hope that this fic will continue to be a pleasure to read (and possibly re-read!) now it's up in full. I'll miss having this story on my mind... though I suppose I'll just have to direct that energy into my next Whitechapel fic. :) 
> 
> For updates, feel free to check my [Tumblr](http://saizine.tumblr.com) (for weekly updates/excerpts of whatever project I'm working on) or my [Twitter](http://twitter.com/saizine) (for real-time commentary on writing and the inevitable typos).


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